Unraveling
by scarletnightingale
Summary: The Joker is unraveling Dr. Harleen Quinzel, one silver strand of her psyche at a time.
1. Bad Beginnings

**Hey, all! This is my first story I've posted here. It's a bit of a different take on Harley, I think, and I found it refreshing to write. In fact, I'm excited to continue it. **

**Please, please, leave me a comment - R&R! I'd love to hear from you. **

**Well, here we go! **

There are no clocks inside Arkham Asylum - at least not where the inmates can see them. It's just as well; to most of the people locked away inside these walls, clocks are irrelevant, useless. There comes a time, somehow, when seconds cease to exist, and without even realizing it you no longer measure life in minutes or hours, but in how many meals you've eaten that day or how many times they've let you out to use the toilet. Once you're in that filthy grey uniform and the door to your cell has been slammed in your face, time becomes something obsolete, something empty, something that was.

But to Patient 7768 waiting in lab 32B, the concept of time was still very much alive. Though there were no clocks to tell him so, he already knew his doctor was late.

The patient didn't appear annoyed; in fact, he looked almost careless about the entire thing. He was casually sprawled in a cold aluminum folding chair, his long legs stretched out, his hands - cuffed tightly together by an overzealous orderly - fidgeting in his lap. The stark fluorescent light overhead sent his angular face into shadows, highlighting a strong chin and cheekbones, washing out the fading green, stringy hair that settled around his ears. His skin looked milky and drawn in this room, even though they'd scrubbed off his white greasepaint when he'd first arrived a week ago. Under this light, his face was smooth, almost eerily angelic, but the thick scars running from cheek to cheek caught the shadows and appeared even more gruesome, even more wicked.

He tilted his head back and began to count the number of vein-like cracks in the ceiling, vaguely wondering what was taking so long. He'd had six psychiatrists take a go at him over the last seven days, and they'd all been almost annoyingly punctual, flitting into the room just a split second after he'd sat down, smiling at him, asking him how he was.

"How do I look to you," he'd reply to each one, smirking, his tongue darting over his lips, "in your, ah, _professional_ opinion, doctor?" They would give him another simpering smile and stumble over their next words, their eyes fluttering around the room as they tried hard to look anywhere but at him. Almost immediately they each launched into questions about a whole variety of supposedly painful elements of his past - his childhood and parents being favorite topics. But he never answered them - never the way they wanted, at least. He took their questions and spun wonderful, elaborate tales out of his "answers," all the while keeping the laughter out of his voice as he watched them frantically scribble down notes. He kept his replies realistic, of course, aware that their belief was what drove the game, but always wound up at an ending so twisted, so ridiculous, so _funny_ that they realized they were being had - if his laughter didn't give it away first. He took to watching their faces especially closely as he neared the conclusion of his tales, just to see their haughty, triumphant smiles crumple into sullen grimaces.

"What was the point of telling me all that?" snapped his third psychiatrist on his way out the door.

His patient only shrugged and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Well, isn't that, ah, your job, doctor? To find out?" And he'd giggle profusely as the man gasped indignantly and scurried out of the room. It was funny, downright comical to him that they assumed they could just pelt him with questions, like tossing bits of bark at a snake, to provoke him to answer. He knew what they wanted to hear - trite little teary-eyed confessions like _Yes, my father beat me mercilessly, but only after he'd finished with mom_, and _All I wanted was their attention_. He knew what the doctors wanted and he dangled it in front of them, then jerked it away at the last second, laughing wildly. It was a wonderful game and he was in charge of it - in charge of them.

Within two minutes he grew bored of counting the cracks on the walls - there were too many anyway - and stared at the paint peeling off the thick steel door six feet in front of him. The light overhead hiccupped. Maybe there were no more doctors left. _Too bad_, he thought. _Just when the game got going… ._But he just couldn't help himself. He loved watching people crack, watching them unravel. It wasn't malevolent; it was leveling up the playing field. Besides, psychiatrists were supposed to understand the way the mind worked, and to see them fight to establish any reasonable connection between his thoughts and behavior was nearly hysterical. It was just too delicious to beat them at their own game to stop.

He was examining the thick pink lines around his wrists where the handcuffs bit into him when he heard that familiar sound - a soft click, the rush of tumbling metal, the scraping of joints in the door withdrawing into their coves. Excellent. _Another round, baby_. He licked the corner of his mouth.

But the door didn't open all the way - not more than four inches. If he was very quiet, he could just make out what all the fuss was.

" - and so unprofessional," hissed a woman's voice. "I cannot believe you're just throwing me into this, Jeremiah. Yanking me out of session with my most unstable patient and tossing me - "

"Ugh, for God's sake, Harleen, shut the door," replied a low, tired voice. The patient recognized it as belonging to Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, who'd been in charge of his case since he'd arrived last week. "You know what he's capable of, he could - "

"No, Jeremiah, I don't know what he's capable of, because you wouldn't let me see the paperwork, remember?" She stepped backwards into the room, a thick file under her arm, still peering through the small crack between the door.

"Harleen - "

She slammed it in his face.

The patient already liked her.

This new doctor wasn't like the others, he could tell. For one thing, she was a woman. She wore a white lab coat over her clothes, but beneath it he could just see a red blouse, make out the curve of her hips. Her dark hair was tied back hastily into a knot on her neck, a couple of loose strands snaking down the collar of her shirt. She was pale - looked as if she hadn't gotten a lick of sun in months. She was pretty, this new doctor, but in a quiet kind of way. Either she didn't want to flaunt her assets or didn't know she had them.

There was a little crease between her eyes as she examined a document in the file, her heels clicking on the dusty cement floor as she approached him and slipped into the chair across the table.

"So," she said, a little breathlessly, flipping through the papers and plucking a pencil from her hair. "Patient 7768, admitted October 9, suspected psychological disarrangement and convicted in September of multiple counts of homicide, grand theft, responsible for the - "

She seemed to be talking to herself. For a second he just watched her. If she didn't ask him soon how he was, he'd be more behind in the game than he'd like. But still she kept her running monologue, outlining the case details in a soft, tireless voice. It was already grating on him.

"Um, ya gonna apologize or not?" he said, interrupting her mid-sentence.

The woman fell silent immediately and glanced up at him for the first time. "Excuse me?" she said.

He nodded. "I would if you'd just, ah, apologize."

She stared at him, as if she couldn't believe he had the nerve.

The patient sat back in his chair, examining her face as she put her thoughts together.

A straight nose, thick eyelashes. Her wide blue eyes were underlined with smudges of sleeplessness. His gaze fell on her lips - her nice, smooth lips. Potential. Certainly potential.

Then she laughed. It was just a giggle, a confused little trill. But he enjoyed it. He let slip a poisonous little smile.

"You want me to apologize? _Why_?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at him. She was trying hard to figure it out, like he'd asked her something double-sided, something deadly. But all he wanted was just a simple sorry.

He licked his lips and smirked. "Well, I, ah, I don't have much experience with this kinda thing, but I'm pretty sure that's what people do," he paused for a second, "when they're _late_." He accented the t hard.

She blinked and glanced down to her watch. He saw her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Oh," she said, looking at him again. "Sorry. I wasn't technically assigned to you til about three minutes ago. Time was the last thing on my mind."

"Ah, so glad to finally deal with a professional here."

But she didn't look incensed or offended - just kind of amused. That made him uneasy. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head at herself. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Your psychiatrist."

She paused expectantly, as if waiting for a reply, an introduction of his own. He snorted. "Doc, if you want my name, just look at your file. You seem to have come, ah, prepared."

But Dr. Harleen Quinzel was already consulting her papers, her dark hair catching the light as she bent her head to read. "Real name unknown, goes by the alias the Joker."

She glanced at him.

"What," he said. "You expecting Batman?"

"Not exactly. Batman doesn't have your, er, illustrious criminal resume," she said with a wry smile.

The Joker raised an eyebrow. "But the man dresses up like a winged rodent and flies around the city at night," he scoffed, leaning his forearms on the cold tabletop. "And you don't think that warrants some, ah, some mental investigation?"

She sat back in her chair and gave a little shrug. "You dress up like a clown and run around terrorizing Gotham," she said. "I think that makes you two pretty even."

The Joker was silent. His eyes seared into hers, but she didn't look away.

"Anyway," she said, tucking the pencil under the clipboard, "how are you?"

Bada-bing, bada-boom, baby. Quinzel makes the first play. He looked at her sullenly, the same way he looked at six doctors before her, all sitting in that same chair, all staring at him keenly. Except she wasn't. Her eyes were soft. She just looked curious. Just curious.

"How do I look to you, doctor?" He drew out the last syllable of the word, winding it around his tongue like taffy.

She gave him a small smile. "Well, looks can be deceiving. I'd have thought you'd know that better than anyone."

The Joker rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat. "So, uh, what did you say your name was? Harleen?"

"You can call me Dr. Quinzel," she said curtly.

"Only if you call me Mister J," he replied just as fast, his eyes glimmering, lips smacking. She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to call you that."

He shrugged. "Fine. I'd rather call you Harley anyway. Harleen makes you sound like you've got a stick up your ass, to be, ah, frank." He chuckled and watched her for signs of emotional deterioration, but she gave none. Still, he knew he'd landed the first blow, the first little chip at her patience. Score 1-0, Joker.

"This is irrelevant," she said smoothly, in her best professional voice. He caught the tone and scoffed.

"I'm here to help you," Dr. Quinzel said. "We need to focus on that. On your treatment."

"My treatment?" he sneered.

She nodded. "You clearly have led an…eventful life," she said. "But you're here to get rid of that, to start over."

The Joker gave a short, harsh laugh. "Is that why I'm here?"

"Well, why _do_ you think you're here, then?"

He shrugged carelessly. "I'm not like everyone else."

"No, you aren't," she agreed. "But that doesn't mean the rules don't apply to you. You can't follow a different set of laws just because you're different. If you let me, I can help you. I can _heal_ you, even." She saw his skeptical, disbelieving smile. "I can…mend the wounds of your past," she said desperately.

He burst out into laughter, the sound bouncing around the tight little room. " 'Mend the wounds of my past'? Ha! Geez, doc, just a little more creativity, a little less melodrama. That line just reeks of shitty romance novels."

Dr. Quinzel sighed, making a little note on the side of the file.

"What are you writing?" he demanded.

She didn't look up. "What I think about you."

"Which is?" he said, his eyes intent upon her.

Harleen closed the folder and sat back. "Just that you're a fascinating subject," she said simply, although he knew that wasn't really what it said.

"Wanna know what I think about you, Harley?"

"Doctor Quin - "

He waved a hand. "Doctor Quinzel, fine," he said in an irritated voice. She shot him a glare - the first of the session. Score 2-0.

"I hardly - "

"Well, I'll say it regardless. And since we're gonna be together for a long time," he smirked at her, his eyes on hers, "I might as well tell you straight. Harleen Quinzel, I think you're an idiot."

That got her attention. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open a little. She sat up in her chair. "What did you say?"

The Joker smiled. "I said you're an idiot, Harley. Because you think you're going to change me. You're an idiot." He leaned towards her. "It's _me_ who's gonna change _you_," he hissed, nodding.

"That was…entirely inappropriate," she said, flustered. Even under the dim lighting he could tell her face was flushed.

"Sorry to spoil the ending for ya. Now, we've been talking about me this whole entire time - "

"No, we haven't," Dr. Quinzel said wearily. "You've done your best to see to that."

The Joker shrugged elegantly. "Well, we've been meandering around the subject of me, and that's enough. Now, I wanna know about you, doc." He paused, thinking. "Why'd you become a shrink?"

"Why'd you become a mass murderer?" she shot back, her voice flat.

He grinned. "A-ta-ta-ta, I asked you first."

Dr. Quinzel sighed, running a hand over her hair. She sat back, swallowed. "Because I want to help people. People like you."

"Who says I need your help?"

"You do," she said simply, "every time you do something bad. That's the sign for me to come in and find the pieces and put you back the way you were."

He giggled. "This is the way I am, doc."

"I don't believe that," Dr. Quinzel said.

He licked his lips. "Then what do you believe?"

"That I'll change you."

The Joker smiled at her sweetly, condescendingly. "Mmm. And that's your, ah, professional diagnosis, is it?"

"Yes, it is," she said, opening the file again. "Now, let's go back to - "

"You wanna know what my diagnosis of you is, Harley?" he said, leaning forward. The chair squeaked.

"It's Dr. Quinz - "

"Harley," he repeated, cutting over her voice like a blade on ice. "Well, I'll tell you anyway. It's this: I think that you're only here because you're a little bit crazy yourself. You're just like me - except, y'know, pretty, and without all these scars." He grinned wickedly, licked his lower lip. "Otherwise, though, Harl, you're in therapy too - the only difference is that you chose it and I didn't. You talk to freaks like me all day long, thinking you're helping them, thinking you can heal them, but me," he paused and leaned towards her, narrowing his eyes, "I think you're just trying to find a way to help yourself. Trying to convince yourself that there's a difference between your patients and you. The thing you have to realize is, there isn't. There's no difference between you and me. But don't worry, Harley," he said, smiling. "You're just as sane as I am."

She stared at him for a minute, and he could smell the panic rising off of her. Her eyes were narrowed and sharp, but her lips were set in a thin, taut line, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth. She was trying to control her breathing but her chest rose and fell rapidly anyhow, the delicious vein in her neck pulsing. He peered at her. He was breaking down Harleen Quinzel with her own weapon. At this he smiled.

"Fuck this," she muttered under her breath, standing up so quickly that her chair flipped over. "This is ridiculous. I don't have to deal with this. I didn't ask for this case." She strode to the heavy black door and pounded on it twice with her fist. "Jeremiah, that's it! I'm done!"

The Joker put his feet up on the table, lazily leaning the chair back on its two legs. "Y'know," he said, his tongue darting out over the corner of his mouth, "you're a lot of things, Harleen Quinzel, but I didn't think a quitter was one of 'em."

She glared at him over her shoulder, her eyes like knives. "It's not quitting if I never signed up for it to begin with." She threw a hand against the door again. "Arkham!" she yelled. "Get me out of here!"

"So, ah, let me ask you a question, doc, while I've got ya here," he said, tilting the dingy little chair back and forth. "If you're leaving my case, who's gonna be my doctor? Who's going to, ah - what was that cute little line of yours? - oh, ah, mend the wounds of my past?" He snickered.

The door clicked and again the locks tumbled out of place. Harleen looked at him, tucking her file under her arm. "I don't think I could care less," she spat, and walked out of the room. Joker saw her slam the file at Dr. Arkham's chest.

"Here, Arkham," she hissed. "Find someone else to deal with that. I may be young but I'm not stupid and I'm certainly not going to waste my time."

She stalked out of the antechamber and slammed the door behind her.

Jeremiah Arkham sighed, gazing after her, and gathered up the files she had pushed at him. "Well," he said, his voice worn, "that went nicely, huh?" He entered the dim little cell and closed the door softly. Adjusting his glasses, he picked up Harleen's tipped chair and sat down, peering at patient 7768 across the table.

The Joker shrugged and smiled. "Just trying to get to know her, doc," he said. "If she's a little, ah, uptight, s'not my fault." He gave a quiet chuckle.

Arkham raised his eyebrows and ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. "Yes, well, the problem now is who else we're going to find for you. You've gone through six psychiatrists here at Arkham alone, and the others don't want anything to do with you. So next, I suppose, will have to be - "

"Ah, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Joker said, leaning forward. "What d'ya mean, the next? Harleen's coming back. Isn't she?"

Arkham looked up from his papers. "Well, I should think not," he said with a snort. "You didn't exactly cooperate."

"No, no, no. I don't think you, ah, _understand_ me, Doctor," the Joker said softly. His voice was poisonous, sharp. "Harleen Quinzel's coming back. 'Cause I'm not talking to anyone else. You want the - the prestige of curing someone like me, doc? The fame and money, all that glory? Well, it won't happen with anyone else but her. You _need_ me, Arky-boy. And I need Harleen Quinzel."

Arkham gazed at him, his grey eyes tired. He sighed. "I'll see about it," he said. "You saw her, she seemed pretty resolute. I'll do what I can, but don't expect anything."

The Joker chuckled. "Doc," he said, leaning back again, "you act like I'm asking for a miracle here. I'm just asking for Harley."

"Dr. Quinzel," Arkham amended firmly, standing up. "And I told you I'd try. I can't make you any promises." He picked up the folder and walked to the door, knocking once. It flew open, four burly guards sweeping past him and wrenching Joker from his chair.

"'Course not," said the Joker, smiling grimly, the men roughly pulling him along past Arkham. "I wouldn't believe you if you had."

**(A/N: Yes, I have a reason why she's not blonde. You'll see later on. Also…drop me a line! Thanks for reading.)**


	2. Impossible

**(Thanks for all the reviews I received on my first chapter, and to everyone who added this story to their alerts and favorites. It means a heck of a lot to me to know people are reading - and reviewing! Please let me know what you think about things so far. **

**I guess I should include one of those disclaimers, so here goes: I own none of these characters. Everything belongs to DC.**

**Please enjoy! I look forward to hearing from y'all.) **

Lately, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham had been feeling more like a prisoner in his asylum than the owner of it.

He was used to the normal problems into which an institution like his was bound to run - malfunctioning alarm systems, fighting among the patients, the occasional security breach. Arkham could deal with those.

But these issues that had begun to crop up within the last week were something else entirely.

Morale among the staff had slipped to an unnerving low. Always a tight-knit bunch, his coworkers had begun to treat him with a sort of guarded skepticism reserved usually for the patients. He was either ignored when he greeted a colleague or else received only a cool reply, followed by a hasty departure in the opposite direction. He had been all but banned from the lounge, having been ostracized to an empty table and forced to endure a half hour's worth of snickers and whispers as he ate his tuna sandwich.

Of course, it wasn't difficult to figure out the reasoning behind their antipathy, and Arkham certainly had enough time to reflect on it during that empty lunch break. The staff felt he had been insensitive and careless in his management of the treatment of the hospital's newest, most dangerous patient, and were reacting out of loyalty to the six doctors who had been subjected to what was, in their opinion, unnecessary emotional distress. But what else could he have done? Whatever the matter was, he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't in regards to Patient 7768. Arkham shoved the rest of his lunch back into his bag and had finished his meal alone in his office.

Even more troubling than his plummeting popularity was the fact that he was rapidly running out of doctors who wanted to have anything to do with Patient 7768. To be more exact, he knew the number was somewhere between zero and zero. Still, Arkham tried desperately to change their minds, pleading with them to give it another chance, to try one more time. He used every form of persuasion he knew - he appealed to their professional pride, their personal dignity, even hinting that there would be a raise in it for whoever agreed to try his luck again. But each steadfastly refused. They were angry, they were embarrassed, they were confused, but they were all in agreement: Patient 7768 could not be helped.

There was so little he could do about it. Arkham had watched six of his most gifted, experienced psychiatrists enter that lab on the seventh floor, watched as they cleared their throats and settled in, their faces haughty and bright as they began to assail the patient with questions, tests, examinations. As the minutes passed, he saw them begin to split at the seams, even though they scribbled faster and became even more manic in the speed and intensity of their questions. Arkham was powerless behind that one-way glass, and could only stand by in horrified fascination as Patient 7768 unraveled each one of them, a single silver thread of their psyches at a time. Six doctors had pledged to do what their predecessor had not (_Don't worry, Jeremiah, I can take care of it_, and _You should've come to me first - I'll show the rest of them how it's done, _they promised). Instead, each of them fell on the very swords they had tried to wield over their patient. One after the other after the other, they stumbled out of the room with the same electrified expressions, each with the word _No_ hovering on their trembling lips.

Even Dr. Leon Salts, world-renowned for his essays on psychoanalysis and one of the asylum's most successful doctors, had emerged from the room in just forty-five minutes, ruddy-faced and sweating profusely.

"Jeremiah," he had panted, locking the door and leaning his corpulent frame against it, "he can't…I can't…my best tools…and then he…I'm sorry. I've never…seen that sort of mind…"

_Or lack thereof, more accurately_, Arkham had thought as Dr. Salts mopped the back of his neck with his handkerchief and fled, abandoning his briefcase inside the lab.

When he opened the door, Arkham braced himself for derisive insults and jeering from the man who was swiftly bringing the asylum to its knees, but what he got was worse. The patient had said nothing - there was no need. His expression, that smile, gleeful, smug, taunted Arkham better than any words could: _Is that really the best you've got?_

Indeed, Patient 7768 had made life seven times worse in just as many days.

Now Dr. Arkham leaned against the doorframe, watching as the guards brusquely dragged the Joker back towards his cell in Maximum Security. He massaged his temple and sighed. The Joker's words were lodged in his ears, and the ring of truth in them churned his stomach. _You _need_ me, doc_, he'd said. And it was a sickening reality: the asylum needed the funding, the acclaim, the refreshingly positive publicity that curing a man as twisted as the Joker would surely bring.

_But how_? Arkham thought wearily, retreating back into the little room to collect his things. He slung his bag over his shoulder and stooped down to gather the Joker's scattered file from the floor. Just as he was about to click the file shut, a funny little scribble on the side of the profile page caught his eye. Arkham held it up to the light, squinting to read.

_The only cure is no cure at all_.

Harleen Quinzel.

Arkham found Harleen ten minutes later. Every Tuesday at noon, she had session with a patient named Janine Peters, a thin, mousy-haired woman who insisted on wearing maternity clothes over her jumpsuit. Janine had been a high-profile case when she arrived at the asylum, but instead of assigning her to one of the senior doctors, Arkham gave the job to Harleen. He didn't regret it.

He peered into the tiny window on the door and observed her. Harleen had a very distinct approach to therapy; in the ten minutes he watched, only twice did she open her mouth to say something. Asking too many questions, directing the conversation, that wasn't her style. She listened. And while it was a little too passive for Arkham's taste, he couldn't deny that it was effective. Harleen had been working with Janine Peters for two months, and already had gotten more information out of her than Arkham had in four.

"Janine Peters won't be an easy task, Harleen," he'd told her when he'd assigned her the case. "Gave birth to a set of twins. When she saw that one of them had been born with a severe facial disfigurement - "

"She cut off the face of the other baby and tried to sew it into the skin of the deformed one…and then killed her husband for interfering," Harleen had finished quietly. "I know the case, Jeremiah."

He handed her the patient's files. "Maybe she'll do better with you," he said. "She wouldn't talk to me. Said I wouldn't understand a woman's pain."

Harleen had smiled at him and held the file to her chest. "I can do it," she assured him.

That was how it had always been. Even when she'd first come to the asylum to interview, Harleen Quinzel made it clear that she was capable, willing, more than competent. She showed him a portfolio stuffed with her essays, some from med school and some which had been published in major psychiatry journals. She pushed her transcripts under his nose and described the results of the research she'd conducted throughout her years of schooling. She was charming, came prepared with interesting questions and was clearly more than academically qualified.

But she was twenty-six years old. She may have whizzed through school with flying colors, but Arkham had still had reservations about her emotional maturity. He thought an internship might be more appropriate than a full-fledged associate position.

"I didn't come here to bring you coffee and take down messages, Dr. Arkham," she'd said with a strained smile when he offered her the internship instead.

"No, no, of course not," he agreed. It would've been stupid to contradict her. She was ambitious, fantastically intelligent, a little brash and had a love for psychiatry that was only rivaled by Arkham's own.

"It's not like that. But it will be difficult," he warned.

"I can do it," she'd said.

Now, Arkham would give almost anything to hear her say those words to him again.

He stood there for a few moments longer, staring vaguely ahead, too caught up in his thoughts to be conscious of much around him. He didn't realize Harleen had noticed him until the door had already opened.

"Dr. Arkham," she greeted him coolly, her eyes flashing. She slipped out of the room and closed the door gently behind her. "Did you need me? I was just getting started with Janine. Or," her lips twisted into a derisive smile, "is there another sadistic, manipulative clown in here that you'd rather throw me to instead?"

Arkham gave a tired laugh - anything more exerting than silence was an effort these days - but ignored her jibe.

"Well done in there," he said, nodding towards the lab she had just exited. "You've really made strides with the Peters case."

Harleen gave a quick smile. "Well, I'm not doing much. Just letting her talk," she explained. "Usually I find it's more productive to let the patient run the session, rather than the doctor. The mind can heal itself, if we don't interfere."

Arkham's thoughts flashed to the note he'd seen in the case file. _The only cure is no cure at all. _He turned the words over and over in his head. _The only cure_…

"But I don't think you're here to discuss psych theory," she prompted, shifting her weight.

Arkham shook his head, the note vanishing from it. "No," he agreed. "But I've got to speak with you. Listen, about Patient 776 - "

"The Joker, you mean," she cut in, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice jumped off the tile walls in a garish echo, drawing curious stares from a few orderlies down the hall. Arkham gave an exasperated huff.

"Let's take a walk," he said. "We can't talk here."

Harleen bit her lower lip, glancing over her shoulder at Janine. She hesitated for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Fine. But let's make it quick."

Arkham and Harleen walked quietly for a while, only the clicking of her heels on the tile and distant slams of doors, the occasional scream, piercing the silence. As they migrated farther away from the main hall, the air grew colder, heavy with the smell of disinfectant and bleach. The lamps seemed to slowly lose the will to maintain their glow; as the two doctors progressed, the harsh light over their heads withered into hesitant sputters, sometimes snuffing out altogether. Arkham glanced at Harleen out of the corner of his eye; if she had never been to Maximum Security before, or even anywhere near it, she was hiding it well.

"I owe you an apology," he said finally into the silence. Harleen whipped her head up.

"Why?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It was a mistake to send you in there this morning. With the Joker," he said. "I don't know what I expected. I suppose I thought you could handle it."

"I - it wasn't that - "

"He's been a real nightmare," Arkham continued, ignoring her. "I was just desperate to try anything, I guess. And that included trying you. I only figured you'd be eager to take your shot at him, knowing how ambitious and intelligent you are." He cast her a wistful gaze. "But I've been wrong before."

She winced, recoiling from the remark. "It wasn't that I didn't want to try, Jeremiah," she said. "But you'd already given me Janine Peters a couple months ago, and that was a huge deal for me. I knew you had several other doctors who could've handled the Joker, so I kept out of it and worked twice as hard with my own patient." Then she added, in a soft, sharp voice: "I'm not weak." Arkham wasn't sure whether she'd said it to convince him or herself.

They rounded a corner. "Well, whatever the case is," Arkham said briskly, "I know you tried your hardest." In his peripheral vision he saw her body tense. He almost felt guilty for manipulating her like this. Almost.

At last, in front of a massive, windowless steel door, they stopped. _The Gerald and Joanne Rosenguild Maximum Security Center _was embossed in cold brass letters on the wall.

"Morning, Jerry," Arkham said cheerfully to one of the guards, scanning his ID card and tapped a code into the pad. After a loud succession of locks lurching back into the wall, the door beeped. Arkham pulled it open and motioned Harleen inside.

The maximum security corridor was even tighter and colder than the others in the asylum. Illuminated by ovals of yellow light from the ceiling lamps, the concrete floor was smooth, icy. Massive doors, colorless and blank except for a single square window, jutted out of the walls at five feet intervals.

Arkham looked at Harleen. He expected some sort of apprehension, perhaps at the very least some involuntary shivering, but there was none. She looked thrilled: her eyes were wide, bright, her face flushed with quiet excitement. They reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of the last cell.

"So what are we doing here?" Harleen said, peering into the thin rectangular window on the door.

"I just want to thank you for making an effort with him," Arkham said quietly. He stood behind her, looking over her shoulder into the cell. Sitting against the wall, fidgeting absently with a paperclip, was the Joker. Harleen gently raised her fingers to the glass - instantly his eyes shot up. It was as if he could see her - as if he was looking straight at her.

"He can't see us, can he?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

"No," Arkham said. "Impossible."

Harleen ran her fingers down the glass. Impossible.

Arkham saw his chance.

"Six doctors have tried their luck with him since he got here," he said softly. "Six of them failed. He cracked all of them. No one lasted more than an hour with him." Arkham sighed melodramatically. "He wants to improve, Harleen." _A lie_. Arkham's conscience did guilty backflips. "He needs help. He needs someone who will listen to him, someone with exceptional patience - exceptional intelligence." He eyed Harleen and sighed. "A pity, though, that we have no such doctor on staff. What with the six doctors he's already gone through, and then you, of course, with no interest in the case after what happened today, which I understand completely…well, we'll just have to tell the court we can't help him. I daresay they'll send him to Blackgate, but maybe they can do something for him there. We just can't handle a mind like his, I suppose."

Arkham paused and surveyed Harleen's face. It was unreadable - she just stared through the glass at the Joker, her eyes still and dark. _Impossible_, she mouthed.

He watched her for a few seconds more and cleared his throat. It was time for him to go.

"Well," Arkham said, "I must be getting along now - I've got a busy schedule today. But don't let me rush you. I'll just leave you to your thoughts." He turned on his heel, barely able to suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. "Oh, and if you need me, I'll be in my office," he called back to her. She appeared not to have heard him.

Arkham strode away, looking once more over his shoulder. She was still frozen in that little oval of light, her arms folded across her chest, her lips tight. She stared into the Joker's cell, the word _Impossible_ hovering on her lips again.

He smiled. Harleen Quinzel was back on the case.


	3. Confessions

**(Eek, sorry for the criminally long (ha?) wait. The Muse has not been too kind to me lately. **

**Anyway, thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favorited/alerted this story! It means a lot. Please continue to R&R. It really does feed the Muse. I think she's starving. **

**I took some liberties with the backgrounds of these two magnificent people. It's just my interpretation of why they are the way they are. **

**I own neither Harleen Quinzel nor the Joker, nor any other DC character I might reference.) **

…

Harleen Quinzel licked her lips and tasted blood. It was a bad habit left over from her adolescence, biting her lower lip, and one she thought she'd gotten rid of a long time ago. Now it only surfaced occasionally, mostly when she was stressed out or exhausted. And she was definitely both of those things.

The drive home had been quiet - just the steady tapping of rain on the windows of the faded red Corolla. Harleen usually hit the radio as soon as she got in the car, but she couldn't bring herself to listen to anything. Not while her subconscious kept up its running monologue in her head.

_Jeremiah Arkham! _she thought furiously, pounding the gas with her foot. _You slimy rat…you bastard! _The needle on the speed gauge spiked to 65. _You knew what you were doing, dumping me in Max Security and dangling #7768 in front of my face like that. All of that bullshit about disappointment, hopelessness - ugh, you manipulative jerk! _She punched the gas pedal again.

_Well, still, _another small voice piped in, _it worked. You have to give him that. _

Harleen grimaced. That was true. Even though she saw through his plan like the flimsy piece of shit it was, she couldn't deny that it had been effective. It was a challenge, and Harleen immediately - stupidly? - took it.

_Who wouldn't want that kind of acclaim, though? _her subconscious continued. Harleen gripped the steering wheel and made a sharp turn into the parking garage. _Curing the Joker…can you imagine the fame? The money? _

She dove into the first available space and killed the engine with a swift jerk of the keys. _I'm not in this for the money, _she reminded herself. She stared ahead at the concrete wall, glowing orange from the dim garage lights. _I want to help people. I want to help him. _

Her subconscious considered this. _Well, that too. _Harleen slung her bag over her shoulder, shivering at the sharp wind that sliced through the garage. She hurried to the lobby door, her heels clicking loudly on the wet concrete.

_You should've told him no_. Harleen hit the elevator button and leaned against the wall, rubbing the bridge of her nose. It was non-stop, this mental babbling. _You know what the Joker's like now. He crumbled you in fifteen minutes flat, and he probably wasn't even trying_.

Harleen knit her forehead and bit down on her lip again. Again the coppery flavor of blood. _Well, I wasn't trying, either_, she argued. The elevator gave a dull ring and she stepped in, gagging slightly at the cloud of smoke in the air. _So it wasn't really fair, anyway_.

The elevator came to a jerking halt at the fifth floor. She turned left down the hall, stopping in front of 504B to fish for her keys.

_He called you Harley_.

Harleen stuck her key in the lock and pushed the door open. Flipping the lights brusquely, she tossed her bag on the floor and shook her hair out of the tight bun.

_Well, he's not the first_, she reminded herself, running a hand through the damp hair that settled down her back.

_Yeah, but the last guy who called you that was _-

_My father, I know. Whatever. It doesn't mean anything_. Harleen kicked off the heels and began to peel off her clothes.

_Doesn't it? _prompted her subconscious untiringly._ You loved your dad, Harleen_.

She threw on an old T-shirt and her favorite pair of sweats. _Yeah, well, that didn't mean anything to him._

Before her mind could come up with anything else, Harleen dropped into bed, buried her face in the pillows and fell fast asleep.

…

The next morning, he was waiting for her again.

"You're getting better at this punctuality thing. Only five minutes late today." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Just eager to see me, huh?"

Harleen rolled her eyes and settled into the folding chair. "We have a lot of work to get started on," she said, withdrawing her notebook and pencil, and slipping the latter behind her ear absentmindedly. "Last time - "

" - You had a little, ah, breakdown, didn't you, Harley?" He smirked, the thick scars twisting up.

She glared. "Don't call me that."

Wrong thing to say, she realized too late. His eyes were curious.

"Why not?" he asked.

_Just shut up, Harleen_, she warned herself.

"It's not…professional," she managed to say, flipping through the notebook so she didn't have to look at him.

He just gazed at her, sitting very still. She could feel his eyes on her face and hoped her skin wasn't as red as it felt.

"Did your dad call you that?"

Harleen's breath caught in her throat. "We're not here to discuss me," she said in a hoarse voice, swallowing hard. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. "We're here - "

"Yeah, here to discuss me, and what I wanna talk about is you and your all too apparent - ha, ap_parent_, geddit? - daddy issues," he interrupted, leaning back in the chair. "'Cause clearly they're there. And I'm still gonna call you Harley, because I like that." He paused, surveying her face. "But listen," he said, licking his lips. "You fascinate me, Harley. So here's the deal. For every piece of info you tell me about you, I'll tell you something about me." He cracked his neck sharply and nodded towards the pad in her hands. "So you can fill up your, uh, little notebook there and make yourself look good to that rat in a suit, Arkham. Alright?"

Harleen stared at him, gripping the pencil and trying not to fantasize about it being his neck instead.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cold metal tabletop. "Harleeeey?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "We got a deal or what?"

She closed her eyes and sighed, dropping the notebook onto the floor next to her. _Oh god, Harleen, are you serious? You can't be serious. Please tell me you're - _

"Fine," she said. "What do you want to know?"

She couldn't believe it. This was totally unprofessional. Basic Psych 101 - don't get personal with the patient. Well, bada-bing, bada-boom, broken. She tucked the pencil back behind her ear, trying not to think about it.

"Well, first of all," he said, tongue darting across his upper lip, "I really wish you'd smile more. It's like looking at an insanely beautiful but pissed off mannequin or something." He made a face.

"Golly, pissed off? I wonder why," she drawled.

"Ew, forget it. Sarcasm isn't your color."

"Well, give me a reason to smile and then I won't sit here like a frigid bitch," she said, offering a tiny grin.

He smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Fine. But getting to my question…do you have any family?"

"No," she said. "Well, I mean, yes, once, but not anymore. My dad was…um, out of the picture for most of my childhood, and my mom died a couple years ago. Cancer." She paused, drumming her fingers on her lap. "But I've got a cat named Crookshanks," she offered, smiling.

"Oh god, you're a cat lady. I should've known you were too good to be true," he smirked. "You got a boyf - "

"Ah-ah-ah, my turn!" Harleen said, sitting up a little straighter. "Oh, come on, we had a deal, remember? Don't be a baby," she said, catching the scowl on his face. "Now. Same question. What's your family like?" She was itching to grab her notebook and write it all down, but something told her not to. It'd be too much like therapy. He'd be aware of it. Better to just have a normal conversation…well, as normal as it could get in this situation.

He licked the corner of his mouth and peered up at the ceiling. "My family…was not a family at all," he said in a very low voice.

"How so?"

"It was just me and my mom and my fath - and Tom," he corrected himself. His face was unreadable. The muscles in his jaw flexed. His lips settled into a thin, hard line.

"Tom was your dad?" Harleen prompted when he didn't continue.

He snorted. "Uh, I guess, biologically. But he was nothing like a father to me. As far as I'm concerned, I never had a father."

Harleen bit her lip, not wanting to press him too far. "What was your mom like?"

"She was a good woman. She was pretty and smart…and had a thing for dark-haired alcoholics, clearly," he muttered. "She was a good woman. To Tom she never meant anything more than a hot meal and a quick fuck whenever he felt like it." Harleen flinched and looked at her lap.

"But she loved me," he added, almost as an afterthought. He looked at Harleen with bright, burning eyes. "You remind me of her."

Harleen opened her mouth and then closed it. _What am I supposed to say to that? _she thought. _And why do I feel…happy…that he said that? Why am I smiling? _

_Oh, enough, _she told herself quickly_. You're just glad he's talking, that he's making a breakthrough here. Right? _

Somehow Harleen wasn't sure_. _

"But enough of that," he said, cracking his neck suddenly. "That gives me at least three questions on you now. You cheated." The corner of his mouth curled up.

"I did not!"

"Shh. Okay. One: what's your favorite color?"

Harleen stared at him. He rolled his eyes. "It's not a trick question, Harley. Sorry it isn't profound enough for you."

She smiled. "Fine. It's red."

"Two: when's your birthday?"

"January 18th."

"Three: you got a boyfriend?"

"No."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Now how is that? I mean - "

"I believe that's your last question," Harleen said quickly.

The patient gave an aggravated huff and sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "Fine," he said. "But I'm not letting that one drop."

"Yes, I've noticed how obstinate you are."

"Thanks."

Harleen smiled a little, shifting her weight in the chair. "Alright, my turn. I want to go back to talking about your mother. Is that okay?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure you want me to answer that? You only have one question, y'know."

She couldn't keep the grin off her face. "No, no, you're right, fine. Don't answer that. Alright. Um…you said earlier that I remind you of your mom. How so?"

_Ugh, Harleen, really? _

_Shut up, please. This is therapy. _

_No, this is madness. Why do you care what he thinks of you? _

_I don't know, I just do! Now go the fuck away! _

Harleen shook her subconscious out of her head and looked back to the patient. He was peering at her with that strange little half-smile on his face. Her heart skipped the tiniest beat.

"I guess the simplest answer would be that you look like her. Very much."

Her stomach did a pleasant flip. "And the more complicated answer?" she asked, trying to suppress a smile.

He kept his eyes on her. She noticed how dark they were. How beautiful. "Well," he said with that wonderful half-smile, "it's, ah, complicated."

"I've got time." She checked her watch. Ten minutes til one. "Well, that's not exactly true. But I'll make time."

"See, that's what it is. Right there," he said. "She was just like that - very determined, very headstrong. If something didn't work how she wanted, she fixed it. She changed it. With the very notable exception of Tom, of course," he gave a short, derisive laugh. "But anyhow, Harley, she was smart. She always tried to get me to read and think differently. Told me not to accept things for the way they were, just because everyone else did." He paused, thinking. "She had a bit of a wild streak, though. She never liked to acknowledge it, but that's how come she and Tom got involved. She liked him because he was dangerous, a little dark, devilish. He was so different from her." He gazed directly at Harleen. "But she was bored with herself, Harley, with the good little life she had. She was young and rich and acted like it, until she met him. Then whaddaya know, a month later and she's knocked up, she tells her parents, they threaten to disown her unless she gets the pregnancy, ah, taken care of," he inclined his head significantly to Harleen, a grimace on his lips. "But of course she didn't. She was a good woman. She kept me and lost her family, her money, basically her life as she knew it. Traded the mansion and millions for a baby and a bastard."

Harleen exhaled and realized she had been holding her breath.

"She was very beautiful," he continued in a softer voice. His eyes slid from hers. "She had these really nice eyes. They were blue." A pause. He licked the corner of his mouth. "But the thing I remember most about her was her hair. It was so soft and long. Dark. I remember how I always wanted to touch it, smell it."

Harleen swallowed. "She sounds - "

"Take your hair down."

"What?"

"Take your hair down. For me."

His eyes were dark, hopeless and hopeful at the same time. Suddenly Harleen's hands were in her hair, her fingers twisting around the elastic that held it in a tight bun. She had no recollection of deciding to do it. It was almost like she wasn't even in charge of her own body anymore.

Her hair fell down her back and over her shoulders as she pulled the elastic out. She ran a hand through it once, reflexively.

Her patient gazed at her. He was silent. Still.

"Can you take these chains off?"

Harleen didn't even hesitate. There was nothing in her head now except his eyes, the sound of his voice reverberating and moving in her veins, in her body. She got up and went to his side, stopping only when she saw the thick iron cuffs. They were attached to the floor; the patients wearing them would be unable to move their hands any higher than their chest. _He is dangerous. _

He noticed her hesitation. "Please, Harley," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear it. "Let me touch you."

She knelt down automatically, her white lab coat catching the dust from the floor. She moved her hands to his, slowly, his face closer and closer to hers.

"Harley," he said, touching the ends of her hair.

Her hands closed around the cuffs -

"Doctor Quinzel?" There was a loud rap on the door. "It's one o'clock. Session's done."

Harleen shook her head, coming back into herself. It was Sal, one of the orderlies, to escort the patient back to his cell.

"Uh, just a minute," she called, her voice cracking. "We're just finishing up." She stood hastily, brushing the grime from her skirt. "I can't believe this," she whispered. "I can't believe I almost…"

She returned to the other side of the table and started to gather her things, her hair falling into her face. She felt her wrist for the elastic, but it was gone. "God, where is that damn - "

"Leave it," he said. He held up his own wrist, where the black band had slipped under his sleeve.

"Why - "

"Just leave it, Harley," he said.

Harleen looked at him and slung her bag over her shoulder, walking towards the door. She pounded it twice - the signal for Sal to open up.

"Oh, Harley?" her patient said as the locks tumbled out of place.

"Yeah?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Never wear your hair up around me again."

She smiled. "You got it, Mister J."

…...

**Alright! There you have it. **

**I just wanted to point out some things. You may have noticed that Harleen never calls him "the Joker" at all in this chapter (except the very last line). There are just a bunch of pronouns. Well, that's intentional. Anyone wanna guess why? **

**Also, she is never "Harley" except for when the Joker talks to her. Also intentional. I don't think she is mentally at the "Harley" stage yet. She hasn't accepted that part of herself, so she's always Harleen in her thoughts and to other people. **

**So what did you think? Reviews feed the Muse! **


	4. Nightmares

**Hello, everyone! I hope y'all had a great Thanksgiving holiday. My family and I spent last week in London - AMAAAAZING city. Seriously, I'm jealous of people who get to live there. I never wanted to leave. **

**Anyway, here's some more for you. It's really long…actually the longest I've written yet, which is pretty neat. Almost 4,300 words or something like that. I hope you like it and read it til the end despite its length. I think it's worth it. **

**Oh, also, the beginning is a little off-the-wall, but the bizarre factor is intentional. I like to think of it as a foreshadowing of Harleen's psychological deterioration and her spiral down into Harley. **

**And, as always, please leave a review. =) Thanks! **

…..

Sleep was the only thing on Harleen's mind when she finally trudged through her apartment door around midnight. Jeremiah had insisted on calling a staff meeting to go over procedure 88 - patient escape - but had scheduled it for after his final session…which was at 10 PM. Ninety minutes of listening to Jeremiah drone on about alarm codes and safe rooms was enough to put anyone in a coma, but between that and her half-hour commute, it seemed like forever before she was back inside her own apartment.

Locking the door, she tossed off her heels and let her bag slip off her shoulder and onto the floor. Dinner, showering, even changing clothes - none of it was a bigger priority than putting her head on a pillow and closing her eyes for the next eight hours. So Harleen climbed under the thick covers in white blouse and pencil skirt and promptly, gratefully fell asleep.

….

She was standing at the end of a long hallway. So long and so winding, in fact, that she could not tell where it ended. Even if it had been light enough for her to clearly see, she still doubted whether it would've been visible from where she was.

It looked uncannily like a hallway in the asylum. She'd only been down it once, but once was more than enough to commit to memory. It was the way to Maximum Security, and in her mind Harleen had already walked this path hundreds of times. She knew the way. She just wasn't sure where it led.

Harleen began to walk. The clicking of her heels on the dusty linoleum was sharp, jarring, and she winced whenever she took a step. But it didn't seem as if she was disturbing anyone; on the contrary, there was no one in this hall. She glanced at the doors that lined the corridor, hundreds of identical doors that went all the way down, but there was no telltale light that crept from the thresholds. She was alone.

She picked up her pace and stopped in front of one of the doors. Grasped the knob - locked.

Swallowing, she continued down the hall and tried another door. Locked. She tried the one beside it. Locked. Tried the one next to that. Locked. Locked, locked, locked, six doors in a row.

She started to jog and kept it up until she had passed a good twenty or so doors. Finally, she skidded to a halt in front of one, reached for the cold brass handle, gave it a hard turn -

Nothing. She tried the next. Nothing. The next. Nothing.

She was sweating. She kicked off her shoes and took off at a run down the hallway. If she could find the end, then certainly it meant a way out. There had to be a way out.

For minutes she ran - five, ten, but after that, she lost track. Door after door blazed past her. Her hair fell out of its elastic and tumbled over her back.

_The end_, she thought. _Where is the end? There's a way out here, there's always a way out at the end…_

Just as the muscles in her legs had begun to numb in silent protest, she saw it - a door at the end of the hall. But it wasn't like the other; this one had light streaming out from under it, white, rich, glorious white. Breathing hard, Harleen turned the knob, and -

It was her bedroom - but as it was twenty years ago, when she was eight. The walls were that same soft lilac; her bed had a white canopy hanging around it, the sheets on the mattress a dark plum. In the corner was her bookshelf, still stuffed with her old favorites and holding the stuffed cat she'd had on the top shelf. It was odd; she'd run what felt like miles down an Arkham hallway to find her old bedroom at the end of it?

Suddenly she felt a breeze by her ear.

"Hello, Harley," said a voice from behind her. She spun around. There, reclining lazily on her bed, was her most dangerous, most ruthless, most intoxicating…

She summoned her voice and cleared her throat. "Uh…what are you doing here?"

He peered at her. "It's noon. We always meet at noon. Remember?" He folded his hands behind his head and jutted his chin at a poster on the opposite wall, smirking. "Nice. But I didn't think David Hasselhoff was your type. Had you pegged for more of a greasepaint and gun kind myself." He winked at her.

"We…we're having session in here?" she squeaked.

"Uh, yeah. You thought I was ready to get out of those handcuffs, remember?"

She shook her head. "No."

He sat up. "Really? Huh." He licked his upper lip and was quiet for a moment. "Harley?"

She set down the jewelry box she'd been examining. "Yeah?"

"I've been waiting in here. For a long time."

She turned to him. "Well, I…can't you just, um, walk out the door? It's wide open," she said.

"No."

"Why not?"

He stood up. "I need you. You have to take me through it. They won't let me out."

Harleen stared at him. "Oh."

"Please, Harley," he said quietly. He was somehow now very close to her, so close she could feel his breath on her neck. "I need you. Get me out."

That was it. His breath on her skin, the feeling of his eyes over her, of his hand on her body… . Yes. She would lead him out. She would let him go.

"Okay," she whispered. She took his hand and led him to the door. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed over it, and slowly, he followed, out of the room, out of the chains, out into the world.

There was a bright blast of light and they were no longer in the asylum hallway - they were no longer anywhere. Their surroundings melted away, the floor dissolved from under their feet, but she didn't fall - he had her. And suddenly he was kissing her. Kissing her and wasn't stopping. The greasepaint was everywhere - her face, her lips, her neck, her breasts, a slick white trail over her flushed skin. But she made no effort to wipe it off or push him away; no, she wanted him, all of him, all over her.

When she broke away from him, breathing hard, the scene had grown into someplace new, a glossy black place where, out of the corner of her eye, she could just catch flickers of silver. She ran a hand absently through her hair, pulling it out of her face - and suddenly so did a hundred other Harleens. Mirrors, mirrors, mirrors - she was surrounded, she and the red-mouthed man who held her, their movements echoed a hundredfold by their reflections.

"Where is this? Where are we?" she muttered. Her voice jumped around the room - or whatever it was - despite its dimmed volume.

"Harley, Harley, Harley Quinn," he whispered, taking her chin in his long, cold fingers. Slowly he turned her face back to his. "Look. We're free. You got me out. You brought me here."

"I…no! I didn't!" she gasped, trying to back out of his arms. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" he said, gripping her waist tighter. "You don't remember? Well, I do, sweetheart. You broke me out of Arkham last night. And now we're here."

She stared at him in horror. "I…I…"

"Yeah, you. This is allllll thanks to you, Harl," he smirked.

"It can't be. I wasn't even…I didn't have…"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, it was and you did. So - "

"No, stop it! You have no idea what you're talking about!" she cried, tearing her arm from his grip. "Just stop it, I don't have to listen to you - "

"Harley - "

"No! You're…you're crazy!"

She realized as soon as the words fell out of her mouth that that had been the wrong thing to say. His eyes suddenly turned a brilliant black, and in one quick motion he had grabbed her arm and threw her into the nearest mirror. It exploded in a shower of silver glass as her head slammed into it, the shards adorning her hair, biting into her skin, drawing beautiful ruby rivulets and finally settling into a magnificent dust all around her. Faintly she heard it crunch; he was coming for her again.

"Am I, Harley? Am I crazy to you?" he hissed. "Well, I've got news for you, darling," he said. Crouching down beside her, he giggled and whispered in her ear, "You're just as sane as I am."

And they both turned to look into the mirror.

Harleen screamed, and he vanished. Her face was no longer hers. In the cracked, splintered mirror, she was someone else. Thick white greasepaint ran down her skin, streaked with small threads of her own blood; her lips were a bright vermillion, and, horribly, worst of all, thick scars shot the length of her mouth up into her cheeks. There were scars everywhere, everywhere his lips had been just minutes prior: her collarbone, her neck, the top of her breast -

"No! No!" she yelled, tearing at her face. Suddenly she slammed her hand into the mirror, but instead of it shattering, she fell into it - and kept falling. Falling…

Harleen's head snapped up from the pillow, gasping in tight, shallow breaths. _Oh my god_, she thought, sitting up and throwing her hands into her hair. _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _-

Suddenly she threw the covers off her body. Glass. There had been glass just seconds ago, all over…

"Where's the glass?" she said, her throat raw, as if from the effort of hundreds of screams tearing past her larynx. She ran her hands desperately down her body, over her sweat-soaked shirt to her quivering legs, but she felt nothing. _Yes there is_, her mind countered. _You just can't feel it, Harleen. It's there, look, you're bleeding_…

"Glass, glass," she whispered, stumbling out of bed. A hot pearl of sweat fell onto her hand and she jumped, clutching the wall for support.

_What is this_? she asked herself, the liquid colorless in the pale light. _Is it blood? Is this mine?_

_No_, she corrected herself. _It's makeup, Harleen. You know. Your greasepaint. _His_ greasepaint._

"No! No, no, no it isn't! I know it isn't!" she cried, bursting into the bathroom and fumbling for the lights. _I need to see it, I need to know I'm right…I'm not him…I'm Harleen…I know who I am…_

The lights flicked on with a sharp buzz, a harsh white glow enveloping the tiny room.

_You're just as sane as I am. _

"No, no, no, no," she whispered, reaching a quivering hand towards the faucet. Icy water shot out of the tap and she threw it desperately at her face, neck, chest, clawing at her skin to wash away the makeup. Her nails made tiny slices her in cheeks, her neck, but she couldn't tell whether the red in the sink was her blood or the greasepaint.

Exhausted, she finally let her hands fall. With monumental effort she turned the tap again, watching the water swirl down the drain. Her vision seemed to spin with the water and she closed her eyes, fighting the wave of nausea that was steadily creeping down her throat.

_You're just as sane as I am. Just as sane as I am. Just as sane…_

Suddenly her eyes flew open. She stared at herself in the mirror, hardly daring to believe what she saw: her eyes were their normal blue, no black paint encircling them. Her lips, though pale, were pink and smooth. She touched her fingers to her cheek to feel for the scars. None.

Gasping in relief, her whole body fell forward, her hand pressed against the mirror. Her breath fogged the glass - the smooth, wonderfully whole glass. She turned the tap again and splashed hot water onto her face, reveling in the heat that seemed to flow back into her fingers, lips, chest.

_You're fine, you're fine_, she told herself as the water ran wonderfully down her neck, steam pooling around her head in a thick cloud. _Everything is fine. You're fine. _

She turned the faucet off.

_What is that?_

The mirror was completely clouded except for a small dash just a few inches above her head. It was a thick, upwards streak, like the bottom half of a circle. Harleen straightened to examine it closer. When she rose to her full height, the streak fell just over the reflection of her lips in the mirror, curving garishly to her cheeks. It formed a smile - a crude, deadly little smile. His. She recoiled, opening her mouth to scream, but somehow the sound suddenly morphed into a strange, wicked giggle.

She clutched at her throat and turned to the mirror again, but her reflection was no longer that of a dark-haired woman in a white shirt. There was someone else. Someone else in her mirror.

She hastily rubbed the condensation off the glass. There, standing exactly where Harleen herself was, was another woman. Her face was painted white, her lips ruby red, and she was shaking out a beautiful coat of glossy white-blonde hair over her shoulders, smiling in a way Harleen had never smiled in her life.

Harleen gasped for air. "Who are you?"

"Me?" the reflection said, pausing in her task. Her tone lilting, amused. "Oh, you know me!"

Harleen swallowed. "I…do?"

"Of course!" shrieked her reflection. "I'm Harleen Quinzel - you know, Harley Quinn!" The reflection paused and stared at Harleen quizzically. "Who are _you_?"

Then, suddenly, the woman faded. The glaring lights died. Harleen felt the cold tile floor beneath her and closed her eyes, grateful for the darkness.

…

"I had a dream about you last night, Harl," he said the next day as she entered the lab, gingerly closing the door. Her head throbbed as if it were splitting in two, and little black spots kept swirling around her vision. Whatever this was, it made even her nastiest hangover seem like a mere tickle.

Harleen snorted and rubbed the bridge of her nose. _Well, that makes two of us_, she wanted to say. But instead she just asked, "Really?"

He nodded and licked the corner of his mouth. "Mhm. See, I don't normally have dreams, but whatever you put me on, it's making me - "

" - bat-shit crazy?"

He stared at her for a second and then rolled his eyes. "God, Harley, I don't know whether to laugh or have you committed. Of course," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, "I wouldn't mind sharing my cell if you decided to, ah, go the asylum route. I like your hair, by the way. Looks much better down."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks. But no thanks about the cell thing. Not gonna happen."

He shrugged. "You never know. Just trying to be, uh…polite? Is that the word?" He smacked his lips as if the word tasted strange, foreign on his tongue.

Harleen gave a reluctant smile. "Close enough. But while I'm glad you've finally grasped the concept of manners, we've got to talk about something. Something you did last night that _wasn't_ so polite." She stared at him pointedly.

"I thought doctors weren't supposed to spy on patients at night," he said, peering at her suspiciously, though a small smile was quivering on his lips. "What I do in the privacy of my own cell - "

Harleen shook her head. "This has nothing to do with…whatever you're talking about."

"Oh, whew," he said with a smirk. "'Cause that would turn this into a different kind of relationship. Although that's not necessarily a bad thing in my book."

She ignored him. "I'm talking about something you did _outside_ of your cell. At around approximately 2:30 AM." Harleen crossed her arms in front of her chest expectantly. He just stared at her, turning his head slowly to the side as he narrowed his eyes.

"Are you serious?" she snapped. "You're not even going to pretend to know what I'm talking about?"

"Um, no."

She sighed. "Lawrence Dunphy. Lawrence Dunphy is what I'm talking about. Security guard on the night patrol." She scanned his face for signs of recognition, but he gave away nothing. "You know," she said, "the one you _killed_?"

He gasped in mock indignation, his dark eyes sparkling. "Me? Kill someone? Here?"

Harleen rolled her eyes. "Yes, you."

"Where's your proof? I heard the security cameras were down last night."

"You knew they were down - you were the one who snapped the wires!"

He grinned. "That doesn't sound like me at all."

"Listen, I know it was you," she hissed, leaning forward. "And even though you made sure no one caught it on tape, you still made an amateur mistake. I knew it was you the second I heard about it."

"Amateur mistake? Which is…?" he sneered.

Harleen smiled. "You left a hair elastic at the scene," she said. "Around Lawrence's neck, to be gruesomely exact. It was my elastic - the one you took from me yesterday."

"Ah, I knew I was forgetting something," he said flippantly. "Ah, well. Still got what I set out for."

"Which was?"

"Um, let's see…none of your business."

They sat in silence for a long moment, staring at one another across the table. Finally, he giggled.

"Jeez, doc, if looks could kill…"

Harleen sighed. "You know I would've never let you keep that elastic if I knew what you were planning to do with it, right?" She fidgeted with the button on her lab coat. All morning she'd been thinking about Lawrence Dunphy. Lawrence, whose wife she had met two years ago at the staff Halloween party. Lawrence, who'd drawn her name last Christmas in the Secret Santa exchange, and who'd bought her a new bottle of her favorite perfume from Penhaligon's in the West End of Gotham. Lawrence…who was dead because of her.

Her patient just gazed at her, rocking on the back leg of his chair.

"I need to hear you say you understand that," she said. A crack of pain shot through her head suddenly and she rubbed her temple. "Please."

He snorted. "Why? So you can feel all better about yourself? So you can feel like everything's okay? You think that'll take your precious elastic off that guy's neck?" He shook his head. "Noooo way, Harley. Time for you to take your Purgatory like the rest of us."

Harleen glanced up at him. "Are you religious?"

"Uh, no," he said almost indignantly. "What did I ever do to mislead you like that?"

"Well, you just mentioned Purgatory. Usually that's only something religious people believe in."

"Harley," he said, bringing his chair down on all four legs, "listen. I'm an anarchist. I don't like government. I don't care for monarchy. So what makes you think I'd believe in a guy who calls Himself the King of Kings?" He burst into obscene laughter that pierced Harleen's head.

"I was just wondering. That probably is part of the reason why you seem to have no remorse about killing Lawrence," she said, shrugging. "Sin is generally a religious concept."

He rolled his eyes and waved an airy hand. "No. I have no remorse for killing Lawrence because it was only a matter of time anyway." He paused. "Well, that and I'm just a heartless bastard."

"You are not heartless," Harleen said. "I don't believe that for a second. But what do you mean, it was only a matter of time?"

He looked at her. "What? You mean you don't know? Ah. Well, you wouldn't. No one did, really. Anyway, Lawrence Dunphy was, ah, not in the good graces of some of the loan sharks down in the Bronx. Had a bit of a gambling habit, see, and thought his pockets were deeper than they were. So…they were planning to, ah, help him get a jump on his repayment. Offer him an interest type of thing, I think."

"What, culminating in taking his life?" Harleen said.

"Well, yes, sweetheart. That's generally what happens when you rip off a mob full of guys with big guns."

She sighed and gazed over his shoulder at the dingy paint peeling off the wall. "Well, anyway…you know I have to report you, right? For what you did?"

He smiled. "'Have to' isn't really the right phrase, I don't think. More like you 'have to but you, ah, can't.'"

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. "Of course I can! All it takes is one phone call to Arkham and - "

" - and you're out of a job, darling."

She glared at him. "Get that smirk off your fucking face," she said.

"Ooh, such language, doc, my virgin ears - "

"Tell me what you're talking about RIGHT NOW!" she yelled, standing up so quickly her chair toppled backwards. A light brown bobby pin slipped out of her hair and onto the tabletop.

He was unimpressed. "Sit down, Harley. Don't get in over your head here." He ran his tongue over his lips. "I'd figured you would be able to put it together, but I guess inferring isn't really your strong suit, huh?"

Harleen slammed her chair down and sat, casting him a murderous glance. "If you don't tell me right - "

"Let me make this easier for you," he smirked. "That elastic of yours still had a strand of your hair when you gave it - "

" - when you _took_ it - "

"Eh, the details are a bit fuzzy," he said with a grin. "Anyway, this elastic still had a strand of your hair, Harl, and when I was, um, forced to dispose of Lawrence, I made perfectly sure that I kept that pretty little hair, in case your infuriating sense of righteousness got in the way and you tried to turn me in. So, here's the deal: you rat me out, I rat you out. I'll tell 'em you gave me that elastic and let me keep it, no problem." He leaned towards her. "D'you see now how easily this can get…_complicated?_"

Harleen stared at him. "So what, what do you want me to do?" she said listlessly. "Am I supposed to sneak out of my room in the dead of night and go kill a security guard too? Like my perfect role model here?"

His tongue flicked the corner of his mouth. "You're cute when you're mad, Harley. But no. No murdering for you right now. You'd just make a mess of it and I'd have to come in and sweep up the pieces - er, chunks. No, no, no, no, no. Nothing like that."

"Then what?" Harleen massaged the bridge of her nose wearily. This was not happening, this was not happening…

He grinned. "I just want these little pow-wows of ours to be moved to a different room, that's all," he said lightly. "Sitting in here day after day, being verbally abused my psychiatrist, who also was an accomplice to a murder…gets old, y'know? So let's just move to a different room and be done with it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's it? You just want a…a change of scenery?"

"Well, ah, there is one more thing, now that you mention it: no more of these chains, Harley. No chains. I put up with them, I haven't tried to escape from them…I deserve a little trust, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, of course, the man who killed one of my coworkers just eight hours ago definitely deserves to roam around the asylum on his own. Right." She gave an unnatural, shrill little laugh. Flashes of her dream - and a thoroughly chainless, red-mouthed patient - spun around her head, made her dizzy. "Right."

But he wasn't smiling. "I never said I wanted you to let me roam around," he said. "Not like I need your permission for that anyway. Nope, I just want to be in a room with you where I don't have to sit with these handcuffs cutting off my circulation for hours at a time." Cracking his neck, he gave a devilish grin. "So, have we got a deal?"

Harleen's heart battered against her ribs. He wanted a new room. He wanted to be let out of the chains. But hadn't she done that very thing in her dream last night? And look what had happened…

Still, he had a solid case against her. She didn't have much of a choice. It may as well have been her putting that elastic around Lawrence's neck for all the evidence he had.

"Fine," she said curtly, ignoring the skipping of her heart. "Location changes, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?" She stood, whipping her bag off the floor by its strap and throwing it over her shoulder. She didn't meet his eyes.

"Sounds peachy, doc. See you later."

He smiled after her as she stalked out of the room. As soon as she'd gone, he swiped her fallen bobby pin off the tabletop and slipped it into his sleeve. For later.

…

**So! Kind of weird, huh? Eek. They are so messed up. **

**And I love it. ;)**

**Leave me something to read! **


	5. Avarice

**A/N: Hello again! Do you all still remember this story? I wouldn't blame you if you'd forgotten. I AM SO SORRY. There's been SO much going on with me lately. I got into my top choice college, there was the holiday, I've been slaving away at rehearsals, etc, etc. But enough excuses. I AM SORRY SORRY SORRY. **

**But I hope you'll like this. I'm trying to shorten my chapters so as to make them a little more palatable. Let me know if it works. **

**And as always, review! 3 **

…...

"Let me see if I have this straight," said Dr. Jeremiah Arkham. It was noon the next day. Despite the open windows, his office still stunk of stale coffee, and Harleen was trying hard not to focus on the smell.

Jeremiah tapped his fingers on the desk. "You think that Patient 7768, also known as the Joker, ruthless mass murderer with a rap sheet to rival any major terrorist's, is after three months of therapy stable enough to be trusted in a completely insecure environment, and you want me to authorize his relocation right this second?" Jeremiah raised his eyebrows, peering at Harleen across his cluttered desk. The paperwork that would authorize her patient's relocation area lay between them in a thick manila folder.

"Well, not a _completely_ insecure environment," she said. "We can still have some guards if you want - "

"If _I _want! If _I_ want!" Jeremiah exclaimed, sitting upright in his chair. "Harleen, security is not just a whim, some odd passing fancy…this man has killed people. Done terrible things. He's not sorry for them and chances are he never will be. It's not just what I want, it's what is necessary!"

Harleen nodded and ignored the spit that had traveled across his desk to her ID pinned to her lapel. She couldn't afford to make him angry. If she didn't pull this off, the Joker would frame her at least in part with the murder of night guard Lawrence Dunphy. "Of course, sir. I didn't mean to sound so flippant. I just think that we're…stagnating in that room."

"Harleen," Jeremiah said. His voice was weary. "If you feel you're stagnating, maybe it's time to bring in some new blood to work with him for a while."

"No! It's not like that, it's just that scenery plays a big part in the therapy process, and I think - "

He sighed. "Look. You're tired. You've been working hard on this case, and I'm impressed." He wet his lips.

"You don't trust me," she stated flatly.

"No, it's him I don't trust," he said.

They stared at one another until the phone rang. "Excuse me," Jeremiah said, swiveling his seat around to take the call. "Hello? Yes. Crane? What about - ? I thought someone was watching that! Dammit, just hold on - "

When his back was turned, Harleen swiped the authorization paperwork off his desk and left. She signed his name for him and within ten minutes reserved a vacant office space on the top floor for her next session with 7768.

…

Lying on his back in the middle of the floor, Patient 7768 was between lunch and his next dose of medication. Dizziness was an unfortunate side-effect of the pills they forced down his throat, and he found the stability and coolness of the concrete floor soothing. He woke up with a splitting headache this morning and for once valued the relative serenity of being one of only three patients on Max Security.

The silence kept up for only half an hour more. At a quarter past one, the heavy iron doors to the Maximum Security Center crashed open, followed by the hasty shuffling of rubber soles on concrete and the clink of weaponry on belts.

"Gentlemen," came a voice, "is it really necessary to grab me like that? I assure you, I'm not going anywhere."

"I'll say you're not," barked a man in reply. "Now shut up."

The Joker got to his feet and peeked out the glass. A tall, wiry man with glasses leaned against the wall of the adjacent cell. The orange jumpsuit looked garish against the sickly white of his skin.

"Alright, Crane. Just hang tight for a second."

The man rolled his eyes. "I'll try my hardest."

When he was sure the two were gone, the Joker rapped on the glass. "Hey, glasses. Over here."

Crane squinted. "Joker?"

"In the flesh."

Crane glanced lazily over his shoulder. When he was sure the guards were well gone, he drifted to the Joker's cell, his blue eyes narrowed. "How long have you been here? I haven't seen you around."

"I've been a little naughty. I'm in confinement most of the time." He grimaced. "What about you, hmm? Teacher's pet bring a bad apple to class?"

"A poison apple, more like," Crane smiled. "They're relocating me to Maximum Security for a while. It's punishment for '_harboring illicit material_." He spat the last three words. Tiny flecks of spit coated the glass wall. The Joker stared at them in distaste.

"What, couldn't bring yourself to leave the _Playboys _at home?" he taunted, his tongue lazily poking the corner of his mouth.

"Illicit material as in potentially toxic substances which I've been gathering from the cafeteria, clown," he snarled. "Individually useless, but in combination possibly very valuable. Since I don't have access to my lab anymore, it's increasingly important to find a way to make my toxin with what I have on hand."

"Um, right," the Joker said, turning back to his cot. "Well, good for you, pal. I had fun with my Easy Bake Oven too when I was your age."

Crane smiled. "Tell me, how is Harleen?"

"What's it to you, Bird-Brain?" the Joker scowled.

"Does she ever talk about me?"

"Only as an insufferable ass."

"Ask her about our little late-night filing sessions we used to have here at the Asylum. Oh, it wasn't a surprise; intern and doctor, no one was shocked. I admit I didn't understand why Arkham hired her in the first place until I saw her without that frumpy lab coat on. She's a real woman, Harleen - "

"Goddammit, Crane, you fucking - "

Before he got within a foot of the glass a fresh burst of vertigo swept at his head.

He stumbled and caught the wall, cursing himself under his breath.

Crane looked unimpressed. "What do they have you on?"

"Speak up, glasses." The Joker lowered himself onto the cot.

"What medication, clown?"

"Um, I dunno. Some little orange things with lines on them."

At this Crane burst out laughing. "The orange ones? Ha! You idiot, you're not on anything. You're fine! Those are placebos. Sugar pills, essentially."

"Hey, back against the wall, you!" boomed a voice from down the hall. Thick boots pounded on the concrete.

Crane smiled and leaned close to the glass. "She was testing you," he said. "Seeing whether you possess the capacity to understand cause and effect." He laughed again. "At least she has a sense of humor…"

The two guards flung him quickly into the cell and slammed the door. Locks rushed into place. The Joker smacked his lips.

"Ha."

…...

Harleen found her patient seated and still when she entered Room 10. The handcuffs, shackles, even the tiny aluminum folding chair - everything to which Harleen had grown accustomed over the last three months in 32B was gone.

The room was admittedly more pleasant than the lab had been. The cracked, peeling white paint of the lab was now dull green wallpaper, faded where the sunlight had sucked the color clean. The creaking overhead fan was a relief after the stale air of the 32B; the beads of sweat on Harleen's neck tickled as the broken breeze swept over her flushed skin. There was a faint smell of must and dirt, the thick odor of time heavy on the air, and as she closed the door she wondered faintly how many other patients and doctors had sat in this very room, walked this scuffed wooden floor, breathed this dust, this weak grey sunlight.

Certainly the Asylum had never seen a patient like hers - certainly there had never even existed a patient like hers at all before this. Before him.

From across the room his eyes suddenly caught hers, the dark devouring the light quickly, hungrily, like flame on flower. He was seated in a ladder-back chair, his long hands curled elegantly on his thighs. His face was unreadable. His hands, unfettered and inescapable now, suddenly looked so much larger, so much more powerful. Harleen wondered for a second how they would feel wrapped around her neck.

"What's different about you today, Harleen Quinzel?" he said. The way his tongue lingered on the last _l _of her name made her shiver.

"Nothing," she said, sitting down opposite him. Her bag fell to her side, kicking up a puff of dust.

He gave her a crooked smile, his eyes sharp over her face. "Looks like you took a leaf out of my book and used some eyeliner for once…" His gaze fell on the pearl dangling at the curve of her throat, slid to examine her feet. "New jewelry - actually real pearl, too, very nice - and you finally got rid of those ancient Versace heels, which were unfortunately _not_ real…"

He seemed heartened by her resentful expression and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared as he inhaled.

"And…new perfume. Lily of the valley." His eyes opened lazily, his tongue running the length of his upper lip. "Personally I liked the lemon verbena better."

"Well, aren't you astute."

"Dare I hope all this, ah, _preening_ is for me?"

"No, you daren't. And I didn't _preen_," she snapped with a grimace.

He chuckled. "Relax, Harley. You look good." He licked his lips. "Almost as good as Crane said."

"Ugh, don't waste your breath on him. What I want to talk about today is how you're - "

He stood suddenly. Harleen had never realized how tall he was. At least half a foot taller than she. Instinctively she stepped back, but he followed.

"No, I want to know, Harley. You and Crane? What did you do? Did - did you fuck him? Is that how you won this job? On your back?"

"Of course not!" Harleen exclaimed. She hit dusty brick and realized he had backed her into a corner. "How dare you - "

"How dare I, Harley? _I_? You little tease, you whore - "

She slapped him, his skin hot and rough beneath her palm. She saw the muscles of his jaw flexing as he grit his teeth, saw the black anger pooling in his eyes. She was aware of his hand moving slowly towards her, was aware of the shallowness of her breath. His fingers brushed against her throat and settled possessively on her neck, on top of her pulsing jugular vein. She watched his eyes; they fluttered, almost as if losing focus, as his palm pressed into her skin.

She counted six of her own heartbeats before he spoke.

"I'm all ears, Harley baby."

His voice made her shiver.

"There was absolutely nothing between Dr. Crane and I," she said breathlessly. "He wanted there to be. He hit on me all the time and asked me out constantly. But I'd never sleep with a superior and I certainly wouldn't have gone out with him just to get this job," Harleen spat.

His hand moved slowly from her neck, trailing over her throat, slipping under the collar of her shirt. In the wake of his touch was a fine trail of goose bumps. Finally his palm stopped over her heart; she was both relieved and inexplicably disappointed.

"I believe you," he said quietly. His breathing was hot in her hair.

"Why?" she asked.

"I can feel it."

His lips brushed the outline of her jaw, over the soft skin of her neck. She arched into his touch as his teeth grazed the curve of her throat.

"Mister J…" Her hands were on his chest, but whether she wanted to push him away or pull him closer, neither of them were sure.

But before she could protest, he put his lips to hers, covering her mouth, melting her objections into soft moans.

Two solemn raps on the door silenced them both.

"Hey, who's in here?"

"Shit," Harley whispered.

More knocking, louder. "Open this thing up!"

They could hear a key fumbling at the lock.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit!" Harley wiped her mouth and slipped out from under the Joker's arms. The beating on the door grew louder, more furious.

"Open the goddamn door!"

The Joker, meanwhile, was unflustered. He smiled as he hovered over Harleen. "Do you trust me, Harley?" he asked, licking his lips.

She glanced up. "Um - "

He punched her and she toppled backwards, hitting her head on the leg of the desk. He bent over to make sure she was out.

"Good enough for me," he muttered.

…...

"You serious? The Joker beat her up?"

"Yeah, man! I was there! Hey, and you think Max Security is strict? Yeah, I bet he wishes he was back there. He got moved to a private wing. Basement level. Nothing good ever happens on basement level."

Harley stirred under the thin green hospital sheets. Glaring white light flooded her eyes as she blinked. When she could stand to open her eyes she saw that she had been taken to the infirmary.

Two guards stood near the door, sipping from little paper cups. Harley tried to sit up, but a piercing pain in her head forced her back onto the pillow.

"But…why'd he hit her?"

Harley sighed as she nestled into the covers. _He was going to take the blame for me. He made it look like that was all his fault. He covered me. _

She closed her eyes.

_He covered me_.


	6. Bruised

**Um, hi…so basically I feel horrible about not updating for two months. I was having a hard time finding inspiration, and then all of a sudden, BAM, I sit down to write tonight and I get this chapter cranked out in four hours. So for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry, and I hope you like this chapter extra extra extra. If you don't, feel free to say so in the reviews. Haha. **

**I want to thank EVERYONE who has reviewed and favorited and author alerted this story. It's not always easy to get this stuff out, but I appreciate so much that you guys are patient with me and don't seem to hate me yet. ;) **

**PS, Patrick Verona's Cougar (awesome name, btw), you should enable your PM so I can respond to your reviews! They're very insightful, so thank you, as well as everyone else, for taking the time out to review me. Y'all mean a lot! **

**Love, **

**SN**

When Harley woke next, she found herself in a warm cocoon of blankets in her own bed. She propped herself up a little, cracking her neck as she rose, and noticed a glass of water sat waiting on the table beside her. She drank it quickly, her muscles tensing the more she tried to sit up straight. _God, I'm sore_, she thought, pushing off the sheets. She was still wearing a blouse and skirt. _And apparently still in work clothes_…

She set the glass back and caught a glimpse of the alarm clock. Just past two. Maybe that was why her head hurt so badly. She still had a couple of hours before she needed to get up for work.

Harley threw her legs over the side of the bed and stretched, covering her eyes from the sunlight peeking through her curtains. She'd get up and brush her teeth, and then back to bed for a while.

_Why the hell is the sun out this early? _she thought lazily. _Wait. The sun…?_

Harley glanced back at the clock. She'd slept til two in the _afternoon_.

"Shit," she hissed. She jumped up quickly and had taken no more than two steps when a wave of overwhelming vertigo sent her plummeting to the floor. Her head bumped lightly against the nightstand and suddenly she remembered.

"_Do you trust me, Harley?" he'd asked._

_She hadn't known what to say. He inclined his head towards her conspiratorially and then there was blackness. _

"That bastard," Harley said, staring at the ceiling. She got up slowly, the blood throbbing in her head, and clutched the walls until she was in the bathroom. She flipped the lights and a searing pain cut through her skull.

"God," she muttered, peering at her reflection. She doubted she'd ever looked worse. Dried blood matted tufts of her hair to her scalp; a big dark bruise was forming on her forehead. She unbuttoned her shirt - her neck and collar were dotted in patches of purple and black. There was a small cut above her lip where she may have bitten herself accidentally. In the mirror she watched her jugular vein pulse for a few seconds. She brushed her fingers over it and suddenly remembered how much better it had felt when he had done it instead.

But that was ridiculous. She shouldn't have enjoyed him touching her, and she certainly shouldn't enjoy reminiscing about it. He'd tried to kill her, after all.

"No," she said to her reflection. "I was Harleen then. And she's already dead."

The vein throbbed beneath her hand. She was breathing, thinking, whole. She was alive.

"I'm Harley now."

She searched her reflection. A new woman peered back at her and smiled.

…...

Jeremiah Arkham stopped pacing the perimeter of the rug to pop his head out of his office.

"When did he say he'd be here again?"

Linda didn't look up from the computer screen. He'd asked her this question twice before. "At eleven, Dr. Arkham."

The stack of papers in her outbox fluttered as Jeremiah slammed the door. He considered himself a generally friendly man, but he could hardly care less for Donovan S. Hyde.

"_Doctor _Donovan S. Hyde," Hyde always corrected testily. But a doctor of what Jeremiah wasn't sure: in the three unfortunate visits he had paid to Blackgate Penitentiary, he had never seen a diploma displayed anywhere in Hyde's greasy little office.

_Not that you need any certification to run a hell house like Blackgate anyway_, Jeremiah thought, mixing himself an Alka-Seltzer. The idea of interaction with Hyde made him antsy - not out of fear or intimidation, but from the sheer exhaustion it always was to have his company. Hyde was a small, fat with eyes that gleamed like wet gravel, and a small, twitching mouth. He was a rat in a cheap suit that was two sizes too small. Jeremiah always tried to avoid inviting Hyde to the asylum, but this time there was no way around it. Patient 7768 had to go.

It was a situation that Jeremiah was frankly amazed hadn't ended fatally. Harleen Quinzel, acting against Jeremiah's own orders, had seen fit to remove her patient from the safety and confines of the lab to a flimsy little room on a low-security floor, with absolutely no protection whatsoever. When two orderlies went to check that everything was going alright in Quinzel's session that morning, they discovered the lab empty, and raised the alarm until the doctor was found bleeding and unconscious on the floor, while her patient was casually sprawled on a chair a few feet away, reading through his psychiatrist's notes.

"Oh, that," he said as two of the guards ran to the doctor's side. "It's a Romeo and Juliet thing. You buffoons wouldn't get it."

Luckily, Harleen Quinzel got away with a mild concussion and some shallow lacerations, and had been taken home after she'd been stabilized for a week of rest. Afterwards, if everything went as planned, she'd return and the trouble would have been relocated to Blackgate Penitentiary.

Problem solved.

But Jeremiah knew it wouldn't be that easy. She'd raise hell once she discovered her patient was gone. And in the meantime, there was still Hyde he had to deal with before he could cart anyone away…

The door creaked open then. Jeremiah fished for his glasses.

"Donovan, welcome," he said, squinting at the figure and trying to force his lips into something other than a grimace.

A pause from the doorway. "It's Harleen."

Jeremiah visibly started. "Harleen! What are you doing here? You should be at home…"

He caught himself from adding the word "recovering;" she looked anything but recovered. Her eyes were glassy and bright, almost feverish. A dark purple bruise bloomed near the top of her forehead. Jeremiah noted the rigidly upturned collar of her jacket and wondered how many others she was trying to hide.

"I need to talk to you about the other day," Harleen said. Slowly she lowered herself onto a chair.

Jeremiah ran a hand through what was left of his hair. He was reluctant to ask her to come back later, but if she was present when Hyde arrived…

"Look, Harleen, I want to talk to you too, but I've got someone coming in any minute - "

"I'll leave when they get here then! I just want you to know that what my patient did the other day was through no conscious effort of his own. He hadn't been taking his medication, he was agitated…it was my fault."

Jeremiah found himself speechless for several seconds. "You cannot be serious. He hit you and bashed your head against a desk! That's more than agitation, Harleen. Do you have any idea how dangerous this man is? You're lucky to be alive!"

Jeremiah could see her throat tighten as she swallowed. She looked straight into his eyes.

"You don't understand him like I do," she said.

"Like you do?" he repeated. "Harleen, there's nothing to understand. There's nothing to _know_ about him. He tried to kill you, and he would've tried to kill anyone else who got in his way afterwards. You forged my signature and went on with this scheme even after I said no. You risked not only your own neck but those of your patients, your colleagues - your _friends_."

Then, so soft he almost missed it - "I don't know who my friends are anymore."

Jeremiah stared at her. This was not Harleen Quinzel.

He tried to take her arm. "You're tired. You don't know what you're saying. Did you drive here? I'll get Joan to take you home - "

"I'm not going home! I know you sent him to the basement level, Jeremiah, and I want to see him!" She leaned over his desk. "I know what you do down there, you and your _associates_," she hissed. "These walls are thin. We can hear the screams all the way to the fifth floor. It's goddamn hell down there!"

A short, round frame suddenly filled the doorway. "Heavens," the man said. "I knew our reputation was a little rough, but I hope you aren't referring to Blackgate!" His voice was oily and nasal, and he chuckled at himself. The sound made Harley grit her teeth.

"Donovan, come in," Jeremiah said, slipping past Harley to take the man's coat.

"And who might this be, pray tell?" Donovan smiled at her, but the warmth didn't meet his eyes. She watched as his gaze swept up her body, lips twitching like a hungry alley cat.

"This is Harleen Quinzel," Jeremiah said quickly. "Our newest addition to the family, so to speak. Harleen, this is Donovan Hyde - "

"_Doctor_ Donovan S. Hyde, Jeremiah," the shorter man corrected imperially. "I'm the warden of Blackgate Prison, Miss Quinzel. I'm sure you've heard of it."

The change in Harley's expression was immediate. Her eyes darted to Jeremiah.

"Blackgate?" she repeated.

"Indeed," Donovan said, settling lazily into a chair. "Why don't you come out sometime? The island can be quite a fun place - with the right guide, of course," he said with a smirk.

"What are you doing here?" Harley said. She spoke to Hyde but was still staring at Jeremiah in back of him.

"Well, I hear Arkham has in its possession a certain rogue they'd like to relocate to my prison - a real nut job, according to Jeremiah here." He adjusted his position, shifting his corpulent frame to look up into Harley's face. "Did you know he tried to kill his psychiatrist just the other day? The horror!" he said delightedly.

Harley glared down at him. Jeremiah saw raw fury flash in her eyes and, for a heart-stopping second, it seemed almost as if she was about to attack the little man. In the next second, though, her face was blank again.

"I have to go," she said quickly.

Jeremiah tried to beat her to the door. "Harleen - "

She looked over her shoulder, her face distorted with rage. He did not recognize her.

"And it's Harley now, you son of a bitch!"

The door slammed. Jeremiah's framed degrees fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.

"What madness!" Hyde exclaimed excitedly.

Jeremiah picked up the broken frame. "You have no idea."

…...

Harley had never been to the basement level of the asylum, but she'd heard the stories. Swallowed deep below the ground, it was supposedly the center of experimental therapy for the more unorthodox doctors in the practice. Rumors abounded about electroshock machines, ice pools, and other various torture devices that certain colleagues tried to pass off as a renaissance of the methods of early psychological therapy. Harley wasn't sure she believed all that, but she'd known patients who had been sent down to the basement who'd come back up completely altered, and usually not for the better. Whatever was down there, it wasn't good.

The elevator opened onto a tight corridor, the very air in which made Harley cough - a pungent mix of what smelled like formaldehyde and smoke. The illumination was dull, but she could see chipping, mismatched tile on the walls, stained with an assortment of liquids and matter. At some spots there was no tile, where presumably age or abuse had left it bare and where now there was only plaster. It was crumbling and marred, and as she went on she realized many of the scrapes resembled fingernail marks.

She wasn't sure what she had expected when she opened the door. A cavernous space filled to the brim with medieval torture devices, maybe, or some nineteenth-century operating theatre with lobotomy tools lying handily nearby. Something out rightly terrifying, flamboyantly dramatic.

But it was nothing she would have imagined. Far worse.

Low ceilings dripped with mold and spider webs. It was cold in here, freezing - she could almost see her breath as it escaped in astonished gasps. The only source of light came from a single bulb hanging from a thread in the middle of the room. She had no way to tell where one wall ended and another began; the perimeter was draped in thick shadows so deep that Harley was nervous to go anywhere near it. She pulled her jacket tighter.

But the worst, very worst thing was in the middle of the room. Lying horribly still beneath the flickering light, tightly bound at the neck, wrists and ankles to a rickety metal table, was her very own patient.

"Oh my god!" she said breathlessly, sprinting to him. She took his wrist and felt for a pulse; she did not breathe again until she finally felt one. His hand was cold, and though it was twice the size of hers, she held it as tightly as if it were her own lifeline.

Harley swallowed the pungent air and tried to gather a breath. "Can you hear me?" she said. Her voice broke as she swept back some of the hair from his face, but the sound did not echo. "Mister J? It's me, it's Harley. I'm here."

He did not stir. His face was pale.

"It's Harley," she said again. "It's alright now, I'm here…" she trailed off. "It's me…" She squeezed his hand. "I have something real funny to tell you…it's a joke. Um…okay. Uh, what does an evil chicken lay?" She paused, as if he could actually answer. "Deviled eggs. Get it? Deviled…ha…"

"That was…the worst fuckin' joke…" he groaned.

"J!" Harley shrieked. "Oh my god, what did they do to you? Are you okay?"

He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "Now _that's_ a joke," he muttered.

"I thought you were dead," she said quietly.

"Only half-way, sweets. A little while hooked up to the shock machine here, some quality time with the fists of Arkham's finest… I'll be fine." He blinked and looked up at her. "You, on the other hand…"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thanks, by the way. You concussed me. Now I _definitely_ trust you."

"Did what I had to. And you got out alright, yeah? Doesn't look like you're the one chained up to a fucking _Saw_ set…"

"Oh…yeah, let me help you…" Harley worked the thick leather strap at his neck until it popped free. She could see the indentation of it on his neck. When she had done the binding at his ankles and wrists he sat up, ruefully rubbing his head.

"Thanks," he muttered. "Maybe I'll decide to keep you around, kid."

Harley bit her lip. "They're gonna send you to Blackgate, J," she said. "The warden's upstairs with Arkham right now."

"Oh, they're not sending me anywhere," he said with a little grin. "I've stayed around, Harl, I've tolerated it for a while, but it's time I left. Don't you wonder why I haven't tried to break out, after all these months? I've done it plenty of times before. It's simple."

Harley knit her brow. "Then why haven't you done it yet? Why'd you stick around?"

He looked at her and licked his lips. "'Cause of you."

"Me?"

"Run away with me, Harley," he said. "There's nothing stopping you. You don't have anything left for you here anymore. You think Arkham's gonna keep you around anyway after I'm gone? You're more trouble than you're worth to him."

She stared at the grimy floor. "What's your plan?"

They heard the elevator ding faintly from the corridor. Heavy footsteps rushed towards the room.

"J?" she prompted. "C'mon, what's your plan?"

He smirked. "Oh, you should never ask. It ruins the _surprise." _

Guards swarmed them from all sides, shouting at them and aiming weapons at her patient. A couple of men grabbed her by the arms and led her out.

"See ya later, Harleeey," he called as she passed him. She flashed him a winning smile.

"It's Harley Quinn to you."

…...

"Now, are you sure you'll be alright?" Dr. Joan Leland asked, walking Harley around to the driver's side of the car. Thunder rumbled in the distance, where thick grey clouds were gathered over the city.

Harley sighed. "For the fifth time, Joan, I'll be fine," she said, popping the door open. She slid inside and turned the ignition.

"Well, I want you to call me if you feel any worse, or if you just wanna talk, okay? I'm here."

"Of course, Joanie," Harley smiled. "See ya." She rolled up the window and zoomed out of the parking lot. She would cooperate now, allow herself to be sent home like a child. But tomorrow she was coming back.

Tomorrow she would go find an old friend.

Dr. Jonathan Crane.


	7. Catalyst

**A/N: I still feel very guilty about taking so long to upload the last chapter that I'm posting this one now as a peace offering. Since I'm no longer dealing with certain issues in my life that made it difficult to update in a timely manner, I'll be able to make this story the priority it deserves to be. **

**Please, I would love some feedback on these last two chapters (thank you to those who have already reviewed!). Am I going too fast? Are the characters developing properly? As a writer it's always nice to hear from readers - be it praise or constructive criticism or if you just wanna shoot the breeze with me over PM (lol). I'm friendly, I promise, so don't be afraid to post something here or send me a message! I do respond to them. =) **

**And fair warning, this is going to be a long one. I was thinking about breaking these up into two separate chapters, but I decided it's much more cohesive and fluid if I present it as one. Let me know if I'm wrong. **

**Hope you enjoy. **

…...

"We've gotta make this quick today," Harley said, sitting down at the table. Doctor and patient were back in 32A, and tumultuous though the events of their last session had been, it felt as if they had never left: the rusty stool beneath her still whined as she crossed her legs, the overhead lights still sputtered and threw weak white light onto the bare cinderblock walls. It comforted Harley in a way to know that some things, as trivial as they seemed, were keeping constant; the stability of the rest of her life, however, was another matter.

Jeremiah was now observing her almost obsessively, but after her behavior had begun to change so rapidly in just a matter of months, she almost couldn't blame him. He always seemed to find an excuse to be in the same general vicinity, and though he looked completely immersed in his own business, Harley knew he was listening and sneaking glances when she wasn't looking. He had even started to sit with her at lunch, usually striking up terse chats about the weather or the impending local elections. He was guarded and careful around her now, and she realized with great unease that he had begun to use the same condescending tone in his interactions with her that he used with patients.

The staff, too, seemed wary of her, as if they had all unanimously decided behind Harley's back that she was now too capricious to risk mingling with anymore. Though they all knew her relatively well and had often shared lunch or post-shift drinks with her in the past, they simply stared at her silently as she passed them in the corridors. Harley was no longer an equal, no longer considered a colleague in their eyes. She wasn't completely deranged, they knew, but there also wasn't something quite right about her anymore.

Harley was in between and belonged nowhere now. Everything had changed.

A low chuckle snapped her attention back into the room. Across from her, the Joker was smiling, leaning his chair back on one leg. Harley noticed how his scars seemed magnified a hundredfold when he grinned.

"I'm sorry, what?" she said, shaking her head and looking away before he caught her staring.

"I said, _why_? Why do we have to make it quick today?" he asked. "I always look forward to these little dates, Harley." His tongue darted to the corner of his mouth, eyes intently fixed on her.

Her skin erupted in goose bumps, and she had to focus hard to keep the shiver out of her voice.

"Arkham's cutting our session time again," she sighed. "Now we're down to half an hour."

"Son of a bitch," he hissed, lips twisting into a grimace.

"That's what I said."

He stared at her. "You called Arkham a son of a bitch?"

"Are you impressed?" she smirked, folding her arms over her chest.

"Uh…well, yeah. I mean, six months ago you were apologizing for _sneezing_, Harley," he snorted. "And now you're cussing out your beloved superiors? Good for you. I would applaud, in fact, but…" He glanced down at himself and gave her a lopsided grin. "I'm a little tied up at the moment."

"I know," Harley said. "I'm really sorry, J. There's nothing I can do about the straitjacket."

He looked miserable, like a leopard lying chained and unable to gnaw at its shackles . She had told the orderlies to go easy on him, and they'd clearly ignored her: the straps were so rigid that he was having difficulty breathing. His arms were bound tightly across his body, but they quivered with energy the way the string of an old crossbow might if you strummed it. She wondered if he would try to escape the jacket once she left.

"Guess we're a little too, ah, explosive together for their comfort," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "Took the concussion thing a little too seriously. Hey, you didn't tell them to put me in this, did you? 'Cause of that? I thought we agreed I was looking out for you there."

"Of course I didn't!" she snapped. "I hate seeing you like this! Why would you even say that?"

"I dunno. Thought maybe you had a bondage thing," he said, smirking.

"Nah. S&M's more my style, J," she teased sarcastically. "Try to keep up."

He licked his top lip, black eyes steady on hers. "I'd love to."

Harley didn't know how to respond. The room was suddenly very warm; all she could hear was her heart pounding against her ribs. She gathered the dark hair on her neck and twisted it into a messy bun, hoping he couldn't see how red her face was.

But of course he did. He breathed her unease like fresh ocean air, seemed to draw strength from her embarrassment.

"Why does that make you uncomfortable?" he asked. "You give it as good as you take it in everything else - and that's not an innuendo, so relax," he said quickly, a ghost of a smile on his lips, as Harley opened her mouth to protest. "You can keep up with me, Harl, and I like that about you. But the second I bring up sex, you shut down and the joke isn't funny anymore."

Her face burned, but she stared at him, silent. He stared back, his gaze unwavering and hot, until she looked away.

"I really…don't want to talk about it," she murmured.

He shook his head. "You know, you really are bad at this. You wouldn't have lasted five minutes with Hannibal Lecter. Quid pro quo, remember? The story would've ended a lot quicker if the FBI had sent _you_ to interview him instead of ol' what's-her-face." He giggled. "I can just imagine it: _'You still wake up sometimes, don't you? You wake up in the dark and hear the laughter of the clown_._'_" He burst into loud cackles that bounded wildly off the walls, rocking precariously in his chair.

Harley swallowed, tried to even out her breathing. It was dangerously close to the truth.

"Are you done making fun of me?" she said tonelessly, when his crowing had subsided.

"Oh, hush. You just need to get a little more fun out of life, Harley," he said airily. "But if you insist, we'll turn to a lighter topic. Have you ever killed anyone before?"

"Have I ever - excuse me?" she spluttered.

He was unfazed. "I'm not speaking in tongues here. It's a simple question."

"No, of course I haven't," she said. "You're the one in the straitjacket, not me."

He lifted an eyebrow. "All a matter of perspective, I think."

The air seemed to evaporate from her lungs in that second.

"No, I've never killed anyone," she said finally.

"But sometimes you'd like to, wouldn't ya?"

"No."

He tilted his head skeptically. "You've never felt so deliriously angry that you'd wanted to just choke the life out of someone? Never felt such a…a ravenous fury that you thought only a gun could quench it? Or a knife?" He ran his tongue along his lip. "Never felt that way towards old Arkham, who took one look at your pretty face and threw you into the pit with a _very_ hungry wolf, just to see if you'd make it out against all odds?"

She shook her head. Her nails cut into her palms where she held them clenched on her lap. Sweat rolled down her neck.

"No?" he said lightly. "How about your father, Harley? Your _daddy_. You ever feel angry towards him for leaving you and your mom, for finding another family somewhere, another little girl to love and spin and hold? How did it feel to hear him yell at your mom night after night, and know there was nothing you could do to keep him there with you?"

"It…he was…I don't - " she gasped. His face swam in her vision, his black eyes unblinking and calm, as he reveled in her agony.

"Does he still make you mad, Harley? Even after all these years?" he prompted. "Do you want him to suffer?"

"No, I…it isn't - "

"Answer me, Harley," he said. His voice was serene over her gasps, his body still as she quivered in front of him. "Don't you want to make him suffer as much as he made you suffer?"

"STOP IT!" Harley screamed, kicking her chair over. "Stop! Stop right now!"

"Or what?" he asked innocently.

"Or I'll - "

She froze, the words burning on her tongue. She swallowed them desperately, but their absence rang the air, shimmering in her ears.

The Joker was smiling proudly.

"See? 'Or you'll kill me,'" he finished for her. "There. Simple, wasn't it? Now sit down and we'll speak like the civilized adults that society says we should be." He tossed her a wink as she retrieved the chair, glaring, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"Now, I've gotta be honest with you, Harley: I have no intention of being carted off to Blackgate," the Joker said. "Like I mentioned down in the basement the other day, I only stuck around because of you. But now it's time to check out. And for me to do that, I'm gonna need your help. Harley, sweetie, hate to break it to you, but I think you've known this for a while: you're going to have to kill someone for me. For both of us to get out of here."

Harley glanced at him in confusion. "Both of us? You want me to…"

"Well, yeah," he scoffed. "I mean, it's not like Arkham's gonna be _okay_ with his most high-profile inmate escaping and give you an A for effort. Heads are gonna roll, Harley, even after we're gone."

"But…I can't go with you," she said. "I - I have a life, y'know, outside of this asylum. I don't exist just for your - your enjoyment."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really. Then tell me, give me three things that are keeping you here."

Harley swallowed, picking absently at her fingernails. "Um…my cat…"

A tense silence.

"Your cat," he finally repeated. "Well, let me tell you something, sweetheart: there's nothing keeping you here except a debilitating naivety known as idealism. You wanted to fix me. Newsflash, Harl - you failed. Not 'cause you're bad at your job or 'cause you're a crappy doctor, but because _I don't want to be fixed_. Do you hear me? I don't want to be fixed, because I don't think there's anything the matter with me. Tell me, Harley, are you out to help me because you truly, genuinely think I need it? Or because it's what _society_ says I need, what Arkham says I need?"

"I just…" she began.

"Do you think I need these chains?" he continued, the steel rattling against the thick fabric of the jacket. "Answer me, Harley!"

"No!" she said. "You don't need them…or the jacket…"

"Then why am I in them?" he asked. "Same reason you refuse to go with me: _it's what they're telling you to do_. For once in your life, make up your own goddamned mind. You can kill a man's body and help another one escape, or you can let him live and in turn kill the other's soul."

"J…you have to understand, I can't - "

"Just get out of here," he said.

Harley shut her eyes, aghast at what she was about to say. "But what if I…what if I agree to do it? Help you?"

"Go home, Harley," the Joker repeated flatly.

They stared at each other for a moment. Abruptly she rose to leave, not meeting his eyes as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

"And Harl, if you have any questions…it wouldn't hurt to consult your notes."

He smiled.

She shut the door on him. All of a sudden she could breath again.

…...

After finally managing to lose Jeremiah, who'd been waiting in her office to go over another set of session cuts and insisted on walking her to the break room, Harley found Dr. Crane alone in the patient library on the second floor. It was a tiny closet of a room, with only a few shelves of shabby paperbacks left after decades of theft and vandalism, but she'd always found it oddly soothing. She hoped its occupant would be able to calm her too.

Jonathan Crane had always had that effect on her, though she knew plenty of her associates - or whoever they were to her now - would beg to differ. But through the shadowing program Gotham University's psychology department used to coordinate with the asylum, Harley had come to know a very different Crane. He had always been civil to her, sometimes even friendly, speaking freely about psych technique and theory. She remembered how thrilled she'd been when he let her run some of his sessions at the end of the twelve-week course. Harley remembered him as gentle and considerate, even talking her through a nasty breakup with her fiancé at the time. Perhaps it was just her _debilitating naivety_, as the Joker had bluntly told her earlier, but she trusted Crane - trusted him to tell her if what she was feeling wasn't completely crazy. As she twisted the gritty knob, she prayed she was right.

The door squealed on its hinges and Crane looked up from his book. "Ah, Harleen," he said. "Hello, child."

Harley smiled. "Hi, Doctor. Call me Harley," she said lightly. "May I come in? I hope I'm not interrupting."

"No, not at all," Crane said, marking his place in the book and setting it on his lap. "Just going over some Marcus Aurelius. But I'm sure whatever occasion brings you here is far more interesting."

Harley settled into the seat opposite him. The room was so tiny that their knees were nearly touching. She sat up a little straighter and swept a piece of hair out of her eyes.

"More interesting, less pleasant, Doctor," she said. "I'm glad to see they're giving you a little more freedom. Finally out of max security?"

Crane rolled his eyes. "Finally. They let me out a couple days ago because I've apparently been 'good' for the past couple of weeks. Since then I've been spending most of my time here." He scanned her face, lingering on her eyes, reading her. Like clockwork, he said, "So how's that patient of yours? The clown? Nice work on those placebos you gave him, by the way. You had him vomiting up half his lunch every day, thinking you were drugging him."

"The Joker is…complicated," Harley said as casually as she could.

"And so are you, now," Crane remarked, tilting his head pensively. "You didn't used to be. You were very simple, very easy to read during that shadow course. Cheerful, loquacious - sometimes overly so," he said with a smirk. "But now you're coming apart at the seams. Look at how tense your shoulders are, your hands are shaking. I don't think you've been eating. That clown isn't good for you."

Harley gave a shaky smile. "Well, hopefully I'm good for him," she said.

"And now you're skirting the issue," Crane said. "Another change. But I'll humor you. Good for him in what way, child?"

"Well…I think I'm changing him…at least a little. I'm trying to show him that there's more to himself than gunpowder and knives." She grinned a little in spite of herself.

"Do you feel affection for him?" he asked.

"I…no," she said quickly. "Why?"

Crane shrugged. "I can see your pulse has risen - you have a very prominent jugular vein. Many times, a person's heart rate will speed up when they - "

"I'm not in love with him!" Harley interrupted hotly.

The doctor merely gazed at her. "I never implied love," he said, adjusting his glasses. "But it's interesting that you interpreted it that way. Has he told you about that escape plan of his?"

"How do you know about that?" she gasped. "I would've never guessed he'd confide in you - no offense, Doctor."

Crane chuckled. "No, you're quite right - we loathe one another passionately. But he had a bad habit of talking in his sleep when he thought you were medicating him. I learned more about that man's dreams than I'd ever wanted to know. He said your name frequently - 'Harley Quinn,' like the jester. Clever." He scanned her face. "I assumed that's why you want me to call you 'Harley' now instead of Harleen."

Harley swallowed hard, and before she could reply, Crane continued.

"I expect you understand the part you play in his scheme," he said.

"He wants me to kill for him." The words burned in her throat and sounded flat to her ears as she spoke.

Crane nodded. "Would you?"

There was a very long silence.

"I think so," she whispered finally. "I don't understand it…but I think I would."

Crane peered at her over his glasses. "Really?"

She couldn't tell if he was more impressed or skeptical.

"I don't suppose I have to tell you that they consider murder as grounds for termination at this hospital, Miss Quinzel," he said with a wry smile.

"I don't care."

He furrowed his brow. "Then what do you care about?"

"Living."

"Oh, what great irony."

She glared at him. "You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't. Go on."

Harley wondered absently for a second which one of them was the doctor and which was the patient in this situation. But she sighed, and, drawing peace from his steady gaze, continued. "I used to think I was happy," she began, playing with a loose button on her cuff. "I had my degree, I had a good job, nice apartment, decent salary. Everything you're supposed to want. My patients here were making good progress, Jeremiah was proud of me. It seemed like I had everything I could've hoped for."

Her voice suddenly turned dark and coarse. "And then they brought the Joker in. He wasn't even my patient, Doctor. I got thrown to him after everyone else bailed. Did you know that? I didn't ask for him. I figured I wasn't ready. And now I guess I'd been right."

"But it was never in your nature to back down, child. You did what you thought you should," Crane interjected.

Harley shook her head. "No. I walked out of our first session about fifteen minutes in. I couldn't help it. I was sitting in front of him and it was like he could see right through me. I was completely naked. My thoughts, my desires, my mind…everything was bare in that room. I think he understood me better than I understand myself, actually. And it scared me. I left."

He raised his eyebrows. "But you went back."

She sighed. "Yes. Jeremiah took me to the max security wing, gave me a spiel about how the asylum had no one else who could help this man, how they'd probably have to send him to…send him away. I stood in front of his cell for an hour, just watching him. I saw him as he saw himself. He was real in that room. There was no face paint or chains. He was on his cot staring at the wall the entire time, thinking. I could see it on his face. I wanted so desperately to know those thoughts, know that mind. In that hour of watching him, he persuaded me that he could be helped."

"And then…?" Crane prompted.

"And then I agreed to take him again. We started seeing each other weekly. I thought at first that he was improving, really making an effort. He talked to me for hours. In our sessions, he'd describe the exhilaration he got running from the cops, how powerful he felt bending an entire city under his will. He said he felt free out there with his gunpowder and knives, knowing that there was no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. He liked the feeling of running with the wind, the sensation of just living breath by breath. He was alive. Happy." She gathered a shallow breath. "And I realized for the first time in my life that I had no idea what he meant."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she tried unsuccessfully to stifle her tears.

Crane did not seem unnerved by her reaction; he simply removed his glasses and did not speak until she had recovered.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

"Or do you love the idea of him? Romanticizing him as some misunderstood revolutionary, out to change the world?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

Crane was unconvinced. "But you'd kill for him. You have no problem taking a life for this man."

Harley shook her head. "You don't understand," she said. "When I look at him, Doctor, it's like looking into myself. I know who I am around him. I have a purpose." She paused. "I love myself when I'm with him. I don't know what that means yet, but…I have to find out." She looked down at her lap.

Sighing, Crane leaned back in his chair and gazed at her for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.

"Harleen, I know you both as a student and as a colleague," he said. "You're a brilliant young woman, and you've earned my respect. But you also know _me_, child: fear is my life - my past and future. Thus, I know it well. There are a thousand different manifestations of it in any given individual, and I've made it my life's work to test them, to study them - ideally even harness them." He caught her eyes. "So I feel compelled to tell you that what you're experiencing isn't any kind of desire to spread your wings, so to speak, or to go and take your shot at the world. You do not feel love for this man. Not even misguided affection. You're scared, Harleen. This is fear."

Her head snapped up, ready to protest.

"Yes, it often tastes bitter to the unanointed," he continued before she could speak. "But you came here for my counsel, child, and here it is: do not help this man escape. Do not kill for him. Do not run away with him. As a psychologist, you know his type - you know the second you stop being useful to him, he'll kill you."

"You don't - "

"I understand more than you think!" he snapped. "Listen. I advise you against this scheme, as your ex-mentor and friend, but if you are bent on it, then allow me to provide you with some measure of protection." He removed his shoe and set it on the table.

Harley stared at it. "Well, thanks, but I think I'm trying to kill a man, not a spider, Jonathan," she said with a small smile.

Crane smirked and pulled out the padding, poking around in its depths. After a few seconds he extracted a tiny plastic vial and set it before her.

"If you're going to place yourself in this kind of jeopardy, pointless though it is, I'd prefer if you had some means of defense," he said. "Please take it. It's a custom brew, guaranteed to render an opponent unconscious for hours. It can even be fatal, if you wield it correctly. Just dab a bit onto a handkerchief and hold it to the victim's face. Instant knockout," he said with a smug grin. "I was saving it for a rainy day, but I'd rather you have it."

Harley slipped the vial into her pocket. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "And…this stays between us, right?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I take doctor-patient confidentiality _very_ seriously, Miss Quinzel," he said wryly.

She sighed, relieved. She knew he wouldn't have told, but it was reassuring to hear him say so.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked as she stood and gathered her things.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. "Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Never forget how it feels to be afraid, child. Fear, and its effects, will always be your greatest weapon."

Harley nodded. The vial burned deliciously in her pocket.

…...

**A/N: You know, Crane is really fun to write for. I've never used him much before, but he interests me…Anyway, PLEASE let me know what you think, good or bad! **

**Love, **

**SN **


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